A misfortuneteller's guide to preparedness and how to avoid it

I'm tip-toeing around the house:
to let you sleep, you will need energy –

this is the fall that matters,

these are important frost bites:
a simple whim freezes time,
and there you have it, a story about a man,
whose touch turned everything into gold,
but then left the original sin – the original inside.
It's a good analogy for September,
and for us.

I personify all of our misfortunes:
here is Fuck You, there is Cunt,
and in the corner – Die Shitface
making out with Let's Talk Please,
and all of their family, including
Mortgage, Cat, Shared Stuff, Mem'ries
and Slow Dances On THOSE Evenings.

And I do, I really feel them touching me,
I watch them gathering to dine with us –
it is awkward, you can sense the greed
in the dim air of an evening.
Yet no one speaks, they just breathe,
until one of them tells a dad joke,
a stupid remark about each other,
and it breaks loose.

It’s not bad, there’s wine,
and a nice dish, Better Served Cold.

I think this time is off, as if we had arrhythmia,
a funny juxtaposition between the fallings off
of chamomile and dreamy girls. Speed up,
skip a heart, skip a petal,
or a tip-toe.

Now you go, hunt something,
bring meat and fire, and beat your chest:
for us, for a man, for a woman, so wild,
that they first learnt tip-toeing rather than
just walking straight.