we’ve got no plans but getting high
and eating all the food in your parents’ house
and wondering if we’re getting too old for this
I know I’m too old for this-
moving only occasionally like crumpled bits of paper in wind or dogs with limps,
I am useless and stupidly happy
I lie on the couch and I can feel my talent, if I have it, which I doubt, going to waste
What happens to talent unexercised?
Does it curdle like the milk
you left on the counter two days ago?
does it shrivel and dry up
when exposed to too much smoke?
does its outer shell crack, revealing no interior, only empty space where talent was once,
when I was young and fervent?
I feel like some fairy tale creation, a young and blandly attractive exterior masking some ghoulish timeless creature, some ancient Methuselah with rheumy eyes
and a total lack of any remaining ambition
I never feel so terrified as when lying on your couch
with dirty hair and three-day old clothes.
Terror is the undercurrent of sloth,
I promise you.