before you’re born, your obsolescence
has already been planned.
they give you one line on actuarial tables.
the rest is up to you.
there is no instruction manual
on how best to self-destruct,
ditch the middle way,
the paths of maximum strife
get you there quicker.
and if it’s temporary relief you seek,
an escape without really escaping,
there’s a shaman of the void
from the street corner.
oh by the way, regarding the glamour of choking
on your own vomit like a rock star,
relax, you may have just dodged that bullet.
today the traffic jam is miles long.
you’ll not make it on time
for your appointment
Post image by Brian Harries via Flickr
About the Author:
Lucas Chib grew up on the East African Coast. He lives in the East Coast of the US. His poetry has appeared in journals including Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Glasgow Review of Books, Ink Sweat and Tears. Some of his writing can be found on his website-in-progress: daimajinn.com