but an alive pig / roots in the soil /turning it over / with its snout / softening the ground / is this a hymn

blah moon smoulders as I careen        like a pulsar towards hot blah summer           I am failing       flailing       feeling    in a thalassic blah       in a time where I can’t hear the constant hum of the earth above the hum of mass air conditioning      originally invented to help ink dry & stop pages warping       it now entombs us in productivity      delusion lives in the phrase climate control         I think of sweat as a type of release    a friend texts me      did u know we work almost twice as much as medieval peasants? fml                     why am I

like several edible birds inserted forcibly into a holiday turducken the city intrudes if you turn a cemetery upside down it looks like the middle of a city like a skyscraper