ANNEX 1.0

“These days everyone is writing their final book,” Bonney notes in Our Death (Commune Editions, 2019), published just a month before he died. The ANNEX 1.0 commensurate with the fevered, queasy, anxious, often tedious nature of the current global mood.

    The boor world is filled with more masks than human faces.

    Carnal mortals now wear the mask that grins and lies,

    Where it hides the cheeks and it’s shaded eyes.

    The debt is paid to human guilt,

    With torn hearts faking smile and mouth with myriad subtleties.

    How the world is over-wise in counting all our tears and sighs!

    Nay, let them only see the adequate, while the lummox wears the mask.

    People today smile,

    But, the cries, from tortured souls arise to Christ.

    People today sing,

    But, the clay beneath is so vile, that the feet run down against the mile.

   

    So let’s play the right cards in the game of life.

Underneath the luminous stars on the black canvas,

With eyeball, the glitters and relish their blink.

Sweet syrupy jaw, rhyming and quarrelling to take a chance to overcome one,

Hands clasped and hashed with adjoined soul ushering love by telepathy.

Living in the arms scarfed around scruff.

Be the ears harking tales from the heart that makes you deaf,

That can only listen to true heart tales.

Be the blind that can only see the beautiful faces.

Be the stoner that can only smoke the bouquet.

Be the casualty that can only walk, as humanity a crutch.

Be the patient that can only be fed by kind hands.

Be the dead that can only die for others.

Stare the more galaxies in the eyes,

Than the number of stars in the sky.

Scent the more fragrant flowers in the body,

Than the fathomable flowers on the soil.