Joke.

Everything
in the pursuit
of more.

It's a fucking joke,
man:
men, women,
and babies.

200,000 years.
6.8 million years;
4.5 billion;
13.7 billion.
It's got to be a fucking joke.

It's all
in the hands
of some
incompetent maker
that
never existed.

You gotta 
laugh it off:
it is
a very beautiful joke,
after all

(or maybe
that's just
Nick Drake in my ear).

This is
the only time
we'll ever ride this joke,
and it sure is
fucked-up
(but it's beautiful as hell).

It's funny
how
the only thing I want
in this life
is the only thing
my body
tells me I really need

(no, wait:
it isn't).

Bag.

I saw
your bag was gone
and I thought
you'd
run off;

but
in fact
you'd
popped
to the loo.

It turns out
that I'd run off -
such
pointless venom
has become
humour
self-directed.

(Oh,
it's
a funny
state of affairs!)

Cocky.

Your swagger
is all
in your pants:

for lack
of understanding
that
you're a dick.

Daddy's firm
might sustain you
but the world
will
swallow you up.

My wife and kids:
photos
in wallet.

I took
all the right turnings
but
never
saw the signs:

it turns out
that
all roads
lead to nowhere

and the
road less travelled
leads to
wherever you want it to go.

I wonder what's on....

Burn your televisions.
The joke
has gone
far enough:

it's
peeky
background noise
with
pointed teeth
and a
contorted jaw.

GMTV,
breakfast news,
renovation programmes....

Do you
really
want this shit?

Did you
ever ask for it,
or did somone
just
slip it in?

Here:
hold this.
See you later,
old friend;

I'm going
to the bank,
then I'm
off to Malibu;
but
I'll be back.

Wake up,
please.
Please,
wake up:

we've all been
crying for days,
but
none of us
knows it.