somewhere in time, maybe space too
we’ll find out if what we were taught
don’t know about you,
that incestuous whining of space doing time in
is bending the boundary of belief.
It’s a race,
this thing with time and space,
the great universal pissing contest.
I am not in awe
I am either in Brighton
depends if the light’s on
as to where, but not to whom
because there’s no room
for second guessing
except for the sycophant
who’ll stick out his tongue and
pant for more.
There’s an inevitability to this
you can call it senility,
it’s still a pissing contest.
© 2019, John Smallshaw.