Life's meaning is a number: 42
For the universe won't care about me and you
It's up to us to seek out what's true
Or, remain in silent despair
Like some people do.

Deep Thought has proclaimed:
"Existence means the number 42"
Absurd, odd, unacceptable
Some might vehemently argue

But Deep Thought was right
And we still have no clue
For the reason why you're here
Is really up to you.

An ethereal and spiritual atmosphere
A presence that cannot be seen
but felt by a heart full of yearning
Music devoid of rhythm and consonance
That seeps into the deepest crevices
of a mind that longs for the infinite
Such an enchanting melody that permeates
the room. A dreamworld opened up
by nothing but the artful arrangement
of sound.

The brightness
of the morning sky
pierces my eyes
birds gladly chirping
in merry exultation
a distant radio blabbers
hunkering for someone's
valuable attention...

The leaves appear to me
as lovely emeralds --
a beautiful, greenish hue
the trees sway monotonously
as if compelled
in a steady dance
absentee music:
silence.

I am aware.

Long, flowing black hair
Dyed strands glistening atop
A delicate scalp
Eyes that bewitch
Adorned with bristly eyelashes
Surgical precision had shaped
A perfectly chiseled nose
Lips that captivate:
Red as wine.

Such is the image
Of a soon-to-be corpse
Happily engaging
In an elaborate fakery.

The shape of a smile emerges
and the heart grows light
There is no need for applause
Nor praises
In this moment
I'm alive.

Such is the power of art
Its ability to set free
The long-suppressed yearnings
Of the grieving heart
In this melodious
Poetry.

desire and fear
passion and abomination
intertwined -- such is the chaos
smothering my mind

the throes of terror
and sickly melancholy
torment me...

haunting and creeping
the only reality
in this stillness

I am a goodness without its wings
I am evil without its fangs

To myself
I'm an enigma

My head hurts
and my mind a seething mass
of garbled words, premature thoughts
stillborn
a zombie lumbering aimlessly
through this reality...?
or is this even real?

What is real?

Who am I?

Am I just a specter?
have I stared too much at that yawning void?
Have I read too much Nietszche?
So much...

That the morning coffee
gets cold..

as I stare at it.

As I try to make sense of
this crazy world
that only exists in my head.

Oblate spheroidal
Mass of rock
A being that sprang
From the void, with others
A dull speck in the blackness
Of space.

A lone island of azure skies
Verdant plains and mountains
An atmosphere dominated
By nitrogen
A haven of self-organizing
Critters, bacteria
And its oceans: the primal womb.

So precious, yet so fragile
A mote suspended
In a starry backdrop
Rotating its way towards
Its predestined fate.

Such beauty is our home
A lonely traveler
Lost in the wastelands
Of space and time.

We love our freedoms so much
we fight for it
protest for it
**** for it
die for it

And suddenly, we forget it

This is when one ceases to be an individual
And when the world becomes one-sided
the mind utterly uncritical

This talk of freedom?
Mere babble

Hypocritical

Life passes by
Moment by moment
Each minute a grain of sand
In a ceaseless flow inside
This biological hourglass

Time has this peculiarity:
This irreversible absurdity

That to crave for more time
Becomes one's slow undoing
Sagging skin, unsightly wrinkles
Bones turn brittle, breaking
Muscles ****** out of their strength
Atrophied
Eyes failing, perpetual darkness
And the self succumbs to the lull
Of oblivion
The mind: no longer, extinguished
What's left is a husk of what once was
A human being.

Hope then becomes a beacon, a torch
In the middle of a starless night
A burning, warm sense of certainty
Hope, or that stubborn illusion
That happiness is one's lot in life

But time silently persists
Eroding foundations, narratives
Dismantling falsity
Uprooting grand, elaborate conceits
Blind and merciless
Uncaring towards puny human desires
Hope's demise.

Life: a futile struggle against time.

To what end?

A stale and bitter saliva
Dried and cracked lips
And an aching stomach
Yearning for heavenly manna
Or even just the closest
Hamburger

Paralysis by analysis
overthinking life and all
its complexities...

I think:

Truth, what is it?
When everyone feels as if they
know
and feel
even ****
in the name of this 'Truth'

I ask why...

What's the basis for that certainty
Is it something born through analogy?
I see that we are all mistaken, guilty
Of that condescension!

Pretensions

Self-deception!

The irony of this age of technological
innovation
is that it has become fancy
to crave disinformation

Truth is what we think we possess
in this great idiocy of the masses.

A muffled scream
Threatens to break loose
Running away from this fear
Of not being good enough
Insignificance.

Sweaty armpits and rubbery legs
Labored breathing, one more step
My mind aching for a destination
There is none
Nothing but internal babblings
And an afternoon run.

A ceaseless motion
hither and yonder
like the jumbling of blind ants
in a narrow path
of wet pheromones.

Backbreaking labor
A cruel slaver
lashing his whip
that cracks painfully
drawing blood from the back
of the hapless wretch.

A joke that amuses no one
An insufferable itch
demanding to be scratched
so hard that it bleeds

Then in a moment
snuffed.

Asphyxiated and forgotten.

Grayish skies of silent mourning
Clouds of regret, ennui, silence
Wandering aimlessly

A trickle, and another...

A raindrop

Then a tear...

The skies mirror
my loneliness.

Those bewitching eyes
Glinting like stars
In a world of dreams
Those plump cheeks that invite
The gentlest of kisses
And your lips seem to me
As little fountains
Of perpetual euphoria

You say you lack beauty
And your worth is nil
Oh! How I prayed to the gods
That they take away my eyes
And give them to you.

That you may behold
Such magnificence
That roused in me
This intense longing
For your caresses
Your touch.

Such burning desire
That can only be quenched
By your comforting
Presence.

Eyes drooping as the battle
Against somnolence
Rages on
Like a bloodied
And battered swordsman
I stand and resist
I keep myself awake
Fighting an unceasing lull
From a tireless foe
Ever sly and persistent
Eager to drag me in a world
Of dreams and phantasms.

But as the night goes on
My resolve dissolves
Like melting chocolate
Under a merciless sun
Thus, I slowly drift
In a tranquilizing
Defeat.

As I close my eyes
I am no more.

Commonality
The desire for belonging,
The need to run away from isolation
The origins of insensitivity

This is the mentality of the bully

What is normal is confused with
Desirability, goodness
Herein is the soul
Of the tyrant.

Emotions can be:

little magical sprites fluttering
inside your heart
caressing the deepest recesses
of your soul
gently giving you that "high"
happiness
euphoria
inside you springs
a boundless utopia

Or...

They can be devious tricksters
gremlins, the vilest of
these little devils
torturing you
pricking you with a thousand needles
of sadness
grief
the lowest forms
of loneliness.

Inside us dwells
the eternal Yin and Yang

We may be walking contradictions
irresolvable paradoxes
toyed by the whims of unseen forces
barraged by these mysterious
sensations, feelings

and yet,

Such confusion is what makes us
human.

I am a poet
And the ether is my pen
A digitized mind.

the depths of my longing
is sealed in silence
and a cheerful smile

a smile that feels real
and a rubbery fake
at the same time

and yet...

it is precious,
important

for a lying smile is a lifeline
and the truth is suicide

I envy those who have nothing to hide.

Mundane concerns stifle
the soul that hungers for the infinite
Practicality subverts the mind
as it questions and wrestles with
this existential enigma...

Bound by the curse of productivity
and the insatiable drive for accumulation
Libidinal, perverse thoughts
drive the working man

to this, to that...

he is a puppet pulled by invisible strings:
the corporate, bureaucratic masters
calling the shots
laughing control freaks...
the world is theirs for the taking
and the worker-slave raises his hands
a sense of triumph
as the crumbs fall down

We live in a Kafkaesque era
merrily languishing
in this willful dementia.

Forlornness that wraps the core of my being
Still, relished by a heart that aches to write
Alone, in subdued pain, but accepting
I feel my body and all its agonies
Never wanting this moment to end
In spite of it all, a gentle smile
I find solace in every breath
And in this tender loneliness.

The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.

Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.

The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.

Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!

The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.

Like God, ever sought
Elusive, enigmatic
A puzzle of a million pieces
Or maybe, just maybe
A figment of imagination
Ah! The sorry plight of a human being
Always in constant need
Of meaning.

Pondering existence itself:
mere deadweight for "success"
this narrative of the times
must be upheld as sacred
absolute!

The religion of modernity is that
of willful blindness taken
as a virtue

Benign
harmless
or so we are led to believe:

that it is the mark of a healthy man
to never use his brain!

The tiny red ant scampers
In a forest of greenish mold
Its bristly legs carrying
Biological modules:
A head with pincers
An imperceptible thorax
A swelling abdomen.

It has nothing but a laborious drive
A pheromone-induced servility
For the queen: the lazy, bloated tyrant!
The sole purpose being
The laying of eggs.

The noble red ant
Moves on to scavenge
Blind and dumb
Oblivious.

To the ruthless cycle
Of its existence.