By Matthew A O’Shea

Enough.

Enough of the repeated vibrations of a cell phone,
of the lack of vibrations from a cell phone,
of empty inboxes in empty homes,
of full inboxes in empty homes,
of unexpected bills, pouring through doors,
of the unexpected running out of pills,
of the ticking of digital clocks,
Enough of the endless knocking.

Mock the salesman.
Ignore the scratches, find safety in static.
In the low hum of background noise.
In laugh tracks, in old hacks, in new quacks,
in the constant clacks of keys.
Find the mechanical, find routine, find ease.
Fill the chap, fill the chap, fill the chap.
Drown out the chapping.

I click my pen to the tick,
tock, of the clock
and hope the spring
survives.

Matthew A O’Shea is currently having his existential crisis in Scotland. He studies Philosophy and Theology at Glasgow University, which he believes isn’t helping. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram.

By Matthew A O’Shea

My friend felt so sorry for alligators
that she wanted to die. Suicide — 
death by croc. And she tore into me 
about not wanting to come along. 

She said that I had benefited just as 
much as Lincoln and Irwin and the other
privileged few. I said I would attend but
not participate. Gonzo martyrdom.

She leapt up onto the pulpit besides
the enclosure, with a bat that’s never 
seen a ball and a cigarette holder 
that’s all no-smoke and mirrors. 
exclaiming Pluto’s not a planet anymore.

Matthew A O’Shea is currently having his existential crisis in Scotland. He studies Philosophy and Theology at Glasgow University, which he believes isn’t helping. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram.