Night in Limbo

Sitting, cold feet, on the edge of the bed and wondering what the future will bring, half awake, half asleep, a night in limbo, a little insomnia won't hurt anybody.

Unable to silence that part of the mind not satisfied with what you were supposed to believe, the reality peddled in school, the funded version, the other version was suppressed, policed, ridiculed or ignored, the shadow that's been there since the beginning of beginingless time. No amount of righteous indignation will remove the bristles from a porcupine, or stop the drool of a cow. The tea party is subject to variable cloudiness and unexpected rain.

Bloated belly, puffy guts, putrefaction, gaseous lumpkin lying in bed, tossing and turning, some kind of maina throughout the night, fall asleep at sunrise. Turn on the radio. Talk show: void hot words into airwaves, undulating flatulent know it all hum and haw, laughing and gurgling in smug self-satisfaction, but irritated underneath to know that nobody buys the scam, except other lonely Lohbados willing to form a club in order to have a shoulder to lean on or an ear to cry into, an ear to hear the murmuring moan of self-pity and resentment, because life didn't give you what you felt you deserved. Hopefully one could get old and get over it. It's all too easy to turn into a dried out grasshopper body that lost its hop, an old grandfather cabinet body with a key around the miser's neck as death approaches.