We are tweeting this week is harder than most.
The clocks are off-key. Can someone pass the time please?
We are tweeting this week is harder than most but no one knows why and it’s all out of
kilter.
They have our football and I don’t like football but it pains me and I’m winded.
I’m superglued to the floor.
The kids are playing Fortnite and the teachers are emailing and I wanna write excuses like
the dog ate my homework but no excuses just the truth. No. We can’t any longer.
And we’re fucking up their minds and I used to be a good parent but don’t you judge me
‘cause I got nothing left. And my kid tells me ‘Don’t worry Mamma’ in a Yankee accent
‘cause he is astute but also watches too much Teen Titans.
My running’s getting slower ‘cause my body’s six months older and my springs have turned to
lead.
‘You’re sitting on my stockings.’ Five pixeled faces jiggling. But his office is the
bedroom or is our bedroom in his office? It doesn’t matter anymore ‘cause I can’t pretend
anymore just get off my stockings.
You’re my husband and I love you but right now it’s so noisy and I called you boring but it’s
not your fault. I’ve got a bucket on my head and there’s nothing left to say so just shut up.
They call it brain fog but I think it’s brain smog ‘cause my grey matter is staining or is it my
white matter is scarring? Anyway, what does it matter?
Fog clears but the smog is gonna coat us in sludge.
And the numbers tease and the numbers are lazy.
And they say the light is there but Gollum is lurking and if only I had a ring to slip on and slip
through. I might get out unscathed but will we come out unscathed?
And Gladys is bickering with Anna, and Jenny’s going after Dan and who fucked up hotel
quarantine? But I don’t care anymore about this shit-show just keep your thoughts to
yourself. We are hurting down here.
And the budget harms.
Our suburb is number five and that’s very nice but what’s the point when we can’t browse the
bookshop and the cinema is closed?
We are slipping through October wounded but it’s great news that Louise Glück won the
prize.
We’re not in it together, not with you anyway, it’s just us now and you can’t understand but
save your pity ‘cause we don’t need it.
We don’t want your beach photos and shove your cocktail photos but you can have our
footpath photos and some faded dressed up spoons overgrown with Crabgrass or
Mullumbimby Couch and covered in dog wee.
Weathered pegs on the hills hoist we’re just trying to keep on hanging but the plastic is
weakening and we wonder if we’ll snap.
My writing’s getting looser and my writing’s getting crasser and there’s no more William
Wordsworth because there ain’t nothing romantic left to say. Tom Waits should recite it
‘cause it’s all gravel and his tenors are soothing and the piano has been drinking not me.
And Trump has got COVID and now he doesn’t have COVID but he could have died only it
was nothing and Pence has a fly on his head and it’s all a bit absurd.
And a fly flew in my facemask this week and that was absurd.
