I don’t want to make sourdough fucking bread.
I do not want to fucking learn to knit.
Fuck off Joe Wicks, you perky little shit,
I only want to stay in fucking bed.
And wallow in my existential dread.
Fuck meditation, mindfulness and zen.
Fuck recipes, I’m having chips again.
And trying not to think about the dead.
I will not use this time productively
It’s not a chance to focus, grow my brand.
To put my life in order, to take stock.
This feels like slow apocalypse, you see.
I’ve got enough on, trying to understand:
Daily reprocessing the grief and shock.
Tom Juniper Poetry 