It had nothing to do with sex,
but a light tap on the shoulder,
a purposeful rap on the table with knuckles white, clenched,
(two times more it took for the rabble to realise):
it was a signal for mass suicide
over plates full of spam and scampi
before necks were cut and
blood red was spilled in jugs and
water glasses which, when clinked, chimed
at the motion of a connecting chink
in the name of pretend happiness,
one which is communal, shared,
necessary for jovialities to always be
part of a staple diet of
civil interaction:
"happiness is never an end, you fools," someone cries,
"be sad and embrace the coldness inside your ever-changing
skin home!"
donkeytoddler 