There was a time without hesitation
when I spoke for youth.
I feel old often.
There was a philosophy
which allowed the possibility
for some meaning
or value in life.
Were it as certain as existentialism
about the value of one's own
Or as certain as nihilism
about the total inability to create meaning.
I would take comfort where I can, but there're times
when I reject warmth
and feel the cold universe run through me.
My frail body, were it bound up with anything other
than the psychological tension arising from
this long search, and our failure
to find anything that arises beyond the interactions of
our subject. How should we live?
How shall we be genuine among alien determinations
and all that otherness, enveloping us: our reflection.
The mirror does not usually spare a thought
to its constituent, referring not to glass nor opaqueness.
The mirror, object
constituted by subject
that there were. One drive,
Willing to subjugate the others,
And a thought to spare the subject
as it were. Melody might reconcile with
the absurd, out-of-tune as it is
and out-of-sorts as I were.
A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.
None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.
I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and under-world
As clothes in a washing machine.
Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.
I’ve Been Wondering,
Have you ever clapped your hands
above your head
and snapped up some insect
that buzzed above you
in G flat minor,
then gone and thrown him in your ***
you taught to hum a marching tune
by John Phillip Sousa?
Make the cockroach maracas
From the shells of other vermin
For him to rattle and ward off those
Who’d **** upon my kitchen
I had a hint
Raptors and peppermint
Have been in the background of my brain.
Pinwheel striped peregrines
Wheel round my cerebellum,
Some sharp and spicy sweet
With no explanation
But palette preference
And a taste for talons.
There are lives
that died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.
As if there is none,
be it by chance
or something other.
A wondering lights up interiors;
Such abundance of articles
more-overs out of use.
No stand is clearer than
a subject nearing sight.
What lies above the tops of trees?
The field in which the bluejay flies.
Far-soaring through invisible seas
With white-foam clouds; We call the skies.
Can birds deduce the here and there?
From breezy-field to where it lies?
For when it flies up in the air,
Oh, does it know it's in the skies?
Birds care not for the 'next day'
They bend not to anxiety's sway
Be like a bird and you too may
Be happy wherever you lay.
Inspired by 'The Anxieties We Invent Ourselves' by Soren Kierkegaard
There is a bird on my window sill
So indecisive, sitting still
She could have been up on that tree
Instead, she came and talked to me
“Oh pretty girl you know things well
So tell me which one would be swell
To sing for a crowd that isn’t there
Or to die for a crowd that doesn’t care?”
I didn’t know quite what to say
And so the bird, she flew away
An old one I dug up from the archives circa 2012-2013.
Not sure where I was going with this but here it is.