"pointlessness" poems
You ask me what I feel & think
(because the two are distinctly their own)
about the utter absurdity
& pointlessness of life
& out the windows cars go by
& up in space meteors fly
& sitting in this vinyl booth is me;
not alive long enough to know,
but who was seen many injustices--
yet knowing not a thing to do about them,
looks to those next to me,
who have only seen worse.
I do not know why the universe keeps expanding
or why my professor gives Monday exams
or why my poems are all the same
or why people in my life keep leaving
(or why I keep pushing them out?)--
messages marked "read" with no
response or
rhyme
or reason or
rationality.
Maybe the point is that
there is no point
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
Dear Talia,
I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.
The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.
This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.
I want it to be Christmas already.
The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.
I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.
I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.
You.
It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.
I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.
I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:
I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.
My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."
I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.
I hope that was okay.
I love you.
Yours,
Joshua Haines
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
I stick my fingers in my throat
and throw up a basket of swallowed suns;
under it, my tongue is parched and pinned in place
like a dried house moth on an entomologist’s hand
that nurses it back to life
and demands devotion in return,
a poem in return.
But I have purged the feeling being out of me
like a cold, cold man now averse to the ways of his younger lover
who is alive for all of it — the lust and the starving kisses
and the quiet deaths in the morning only to haunt at night.
I leave letters for my bitten nails without meaning a single word,
and go to lie with the superficiality, the hypocrisy nesting under my tongue.
I have started writing poems again — see where they take me this time
and find myself here, once more
where a fool unpacks her baggage and out I come rolling
like a dead body with a foaming mouth, a brown moth burning under the sun,
a leech that scurries under salt and needles,
slowly eroding like sanity.
She thinks, therefore, she is, they say,
but at what cost? She looks on and pens this poem
with a tiny smile on her lips.
Jul 18, 2022
Jul 18, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
I write too often while thinking of you
It's late, everyone's asleep and my confidence is beginning to bate,
it feels like I've been awake for weeks straight, I can't extricate this state of distrait, everything is becoming harder to assimilate and I can barely differentiate reality from the reversed universe that my mind manipulates and creates,
My heart palpitates, my thoughts tumultuate and my lungs refuse to inflate under this weight as I begin to dissociate
What's great about my universe is that you can honestly relate,
Others understand in this mystic fantasy land,
There life isn't so bland, our existence was planned and best of all you and I roam hand in hand obeying your preferred god's demand,
There I'm not terrified that I will die with the afterlife unverified, the answers to my questions are clarified and my smile isn't forced or pried but instead a happiness that's justified,
There I have a perilous quest to distract me from the distress of the universe's careless emptiness, my feelings abide my behest and my mind doesn't remind me of my pointlessness,
Regardless I'd be happy nonetheless if I could leave all the rest just to retain your caress.
10-30-18
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Over the horizon, lost in confusion,
came the sad night, pregnant with stars.
I, like the bearded mage of the tales,
knew the language of stones and flowers.
I learned the secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles and ivy;
I knew the dream from lips of nard,
sang serene songs with the irises.
In the old forest, filled with its blackness,
all of them showed me the souls they have;
the pines, drunk on aroma and sound;
the old olives, burdened with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nests for the ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.
All spoke tenderly to my heart
trembling in threads of rustling silk
where water involves motionless things,
like a web of eternal harmony.
The roses there were sounding the lyre,
oaks weaving the gold of legends,
and amidst their virile sadness
the junipers spoke of rustic fears.
I knew all the passion of woodland;
rhythms of leaves, rhythms of stars.
But tell me, oh cedars, if my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light!
I know the lyre you prophesy, roses:
fashioned of strings from my dead life.
Tell me what pool I might leave it in,
as former passions are left behind!
I know the mystery you sing of, cypress;
I am your brother of night and pain;
we hold inside us a tangle of nests,
you of nightingales, I of sadness!
I know your endless enchantment, old olive tree,
yielding us blood you extract from the Earth,
like you, I extract with my feelings
the sacred oil
held by ideas!
You all overwhelm me with songs;
I ask only for my uncertain one;
none of you will quell the anxieties
of this chaste fire
that burns in my breast.
O laurel divine, with soul inaccessible,
always so silent,
filled with nobility!
Pour in my ears your divine history,
all your wisdom, profound and sincere!
Tree that produces fruits of the silence,
maestro of kisses and mage of orchestras,
formed from Daphne's roseate flesh
with Apollo's potent sap in your veins!
O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, closed to lament!
All your forest brothers speak to me;
only you, harsh one, scorn my song!
Perhaps, oh maestro of rhythm, you muse
on the pointlessness of the poet's sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecking by the moonlight,
forgo all the illusions of spring.
The delicate tenderness of evening,
that covered the path with black dew,
holding out a vast canopy to night,
came solemnly, pregnant with stars.
2.5k
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
I sometimes sit and think about how I wouldn't mind if the world ended
I know its wrong of me to say that at face value, but deep down inside I know we all think it
not that the earth itself should be destroyed into oblivion, but the opposite
that the world should live on
and the cancerous growth of humanity should be cured
its a pessimistic way of looking at things , I know, but I cant help but feel this
short ride of ours on this planet is careening out of control
I'm not a nihilist or an anarchist or an environmentalist
nor a ********* for that matter
I'm not afraid to die because I believe I will no longer exist when I do
but the pointlessness of it all and the blatant disregard for others,
other species other lives other kinds other minds
disregard for the future for cleanliness leads me to these thoughts,
that a septic surplus has arisen on this singularly magnificent gift
of life in this one and only known universe and we sit here ******** all over it...
I sometimes think it'd be best if we all just left
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
I'm bored of blue skies.
I'm bored of art, music, poetry, fantasy, movies and writing.
I'm bored of breathing, walking, talking, dancing, laughing and crying.
Bored of train rides home alone, bored of trying to understand.
Bored of remembering my dreams, bored of begging for dreams I can't have.
I'm bored of feeling.
I'm bored of drugs, alcohol, relationships, bars, clubs and pointlessness.
I'm bored of hugs, whispers, kisses, smiles and carelessness.
What to do when there's nothing to do,
What to do when you can't spend time with you.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
To the unknown,
I cannot fasten words strong enough to show you my care.
You have taken my language so I can not comprehend, just as you will take a sliver of my heart and gallons of my blood,
So I can understand your pain.
I will save you from the savagery of emotion and the feelings of pointlessness.
I will protect you from the cruelty of man and the scorns of women.
You will never have to experience your heart being torn in two like you have done to mine.
The only thing I cannot keep you from is myself, my twenty first century sense of logic and my own bittersweet selflessness.
You are made of only love just as you will be let go in it.
Let that raw energy you were created from, let it shoot you into the night sky.
So you can experience everything that I will not.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
those pensive ones
as they seem to me
birds on the wire
gazing this way
and that
lost invariably
to their ennui
their melancholy
their obliviousness
to the point
some may say
pointlessness
of their existence
in these moments
without reason
or incentive enough
to prompt one
or the other
to take to the wing
embracing the bluster
of the ever-blowing winds
rather they sustain
this idle malingering
waiting listlessly
for that which none
can know
Jan 5, 2024
Jan 5, 2024 at 12:28 PM UTC
Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having
left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she
says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does
a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.
She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the
odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets
to know his way around after a while,
bit like a ****** gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when
its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in
fact, it was a good evening, a fine
**** he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,
of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just
say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine ****
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.
She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ***
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it
was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the *** the kisses, the holds.
She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on
her small **** her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks
to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and
camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
Words of mystery,
have became known.
Words of disguise,
were rightly shown.
Hidden no more,
under the brush they lay.
For everyone knew,
what they planned to say.
Words scribbled down,
on piles of paper.
Every single one,
would diminish and taper.
You call that poetry?
they say with a frown.
*Classified as a poet,
you're only a let down.*
Words of mystery,
kept concealed.
Words of disguise,
not tightly sealed.
Scribbling away,
at the endless works.
Never moving past,
the broken waterworks.
Here I write away,
those silly old scraps.
And pray dear god,
that I'll never relapse.
Done with the pointlessness
Done with the wrath,
I'm ready to move on,
to journey on the path.
Words of mystery,
closed once more,
Words of disguise,
never like before.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
Music. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Over my shoulder, though,
I've got ghosts and granules.
Voices. You hear it now, don't you?
What's that sound?
Do you hear it, like I hear it?
Evolved use of spoken
word, just to squander it.
I look around,
just to see,
loving my pointlessness
has afforded me,
nothing but
lack of company.
Quote me on this, please.
" I Love It "
Getting home.
Getting ******
No aqualung, here.
Here, the lobes,
evergreen.
I'll die,
but I'm
perfectly fine
in my own eyes,
to be alive,
nowhere beneath,
yet.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Again before an emptiness of soul, where all is fears.
Awake but mind devoid of light or any new ideas.
Crushing feeling of loneliness permeates the very air.
Every action taken or ignored devoid of simple care.
How did I become this decayed and empty thing?
Thinking daily upon miseries, so often days before did bring.
Distant, faded memory of the moments that made a smile.
So fleetingly they went to allow despair room all this while.
Worth? A sense of purpose long deserted, gone and fled.
Only a loathing and a pointlessness is left to fill my head.
Long days before today and for others still yet to come,
Without reason to be, certain only eventually I will succumb.
Like coats of paint upon a wall each day another layer smears.
No smiles, no joy, no hope just a face soddened by my tears.
Ever present darkness, shrouds of dark veils upon me, drape.
Calling increasing loudly that there is only one true escape.
Apr 27, 2022
Apr 27, 2022 at 1:52 AM UTC
I found myself rooting for the tiny ant
The spider was trying to trap in its webbed snare,
No thoughts did I spare before swiping a finger,
and helping it make a dramatic escape
As I looked at the spider, left food-less,
Rearrange itself in its meticulous net,
I wondered at the strangeness of this
Little world of ours, and also its pointlessness
We make it seem so rosy and pretty,
Embellish it with garlands of emotions,
But underneath lies the truth of its existence,
Made up of cruelty, chaos and commotion
The Designer painted it beautifully,
But gave it finer embroideries of pain,
He threw in an entire cosmos together,
And arranged it into a food chain
Compartments and more compartments,
Of colour and country and gender galore,
Hustle and bustle to stay put in a labile balance,
That is forever tipped at the cusp of war
We fool ourselves with the sham that our lives
Depend on friendships and love and such stunts,
When what we are, if we think about it,
Is a part, of one gigantic hunt
A hunt for alimentation,
And monetary satisfaction,
And physical satiation,
Does being conditional deserve glorification?
I wonder if I've turned into a permanent cynic,
It may very well be just a phase,
Though the spider would be cursing me for sure,
Not too romantic it is, sabotaging a prey!
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
I'm done with nonsense,
Done with sweating over pointlessness;
Turning a small nothing
into a crazed something.
Done caring for the material things,
And instead truly living for the little moments;
The little details that make a moment special.
Like the rain against our backs,
As we spill hidden truths,
Echoing against wind's resistance,
Into the darkness.
And at that moment we're invincible;
Nothing can touch us,
And everything makes sense.
For once we understand each other,
While discussing our inability to understand the world around us.
But it's all okay.
Because for that moment in time,
Nothing else matters.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.
I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.
*“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote,
*"It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
(Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.)
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”*
And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.
You were always nasty
When you missed me.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Ego headspace, mindset phaneron life perception sight
the assumptions you operate under to simply get by
or focus on a series of tasks that seem to take
the majority of our lives. building always a beat
of building something without looking or even knowing or
being thoughtful about the thing you are building towards
out of fear of it's massive complexity and incomprehensibility
all of the unknown about it.
Death impudence pointlessness despair terror humility absolute antithesis contradistinction
nihilism gives transparency to the structure
Ephemeral and the mad passion to
work against those things
make the march wobbly to show it's deluded nature
show clear forceful severing ending sounds during counterpoint
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
knowing
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
and
move on.
Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
and
move on.
Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
and
move on.
My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.
and this time,
i stay
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
Where I am is somewhere sacred
Where I am is somewhere familiar
Where I am is a place hidden
behind so many recognizable traps
and unmistakable signs
It's a place so predictable
A feeling so sour
So rotten
So old
And I know I'll remember it forever
because I'll always feel the pull
Words are spoken
that are meant to change the course.
Acts reenacted
over sentiments enforced
If love were all to life
then life is mine no more
If wisdom came with age
There'd be nothing left to *****
Offered is a body, emptied
of everything it felt,
Playing one final game
with the meager cards it has been dealt.
A pattern is forming wherein nothing lasts
a hole is growing and consuming all within its path
Whatever I was before
I feel slowly molded anew
Whatever I once hoped for
my dreams now are few
spinning around one desire
one shining, brief embrace -
that lead me to believe in something
that can never be replaced.
All I am is hate.
All I give is pain.
My heart is used to grieving
over nothing
ventured or gained
whatever words i speak
whatever emotions flood my soul
it's nothingness that fills the ears
and mystifies the goal
you won't understand
whoever you are
these words aren't for you
or anyone at all
these words are simply full
of an empty, futile wish
i want to know there's meaning
i want to know there's life
beyond all the pointlessness
beyond the sharpest knife
so say what you will
say nothing at all
say you saw it coming
say you know it all
say you never loved me
say you never will
so that i can let go
and find peace in growing still
there was love, at once
true and false
there was happiness
that belied any loss
The part of me that hopes
The part of me that dies
The part disgusted by my treachery
and pathetic, selfish lies
The part of me that's hurt
The part of me that grows
Won't be satisfied by words alone
Nor his impassioned throes
It's a choice I alone must make
to sever bitter bonds
that hold me to a life so
ignorant, and memories long gone.
The change I could make today
So simple, so I've heard,
requires only mindfulness
and breaking from the herd
To become a ripple in the pond
a leaf
upon the fruited tree
so that when last breath I draw
the farthest thought will be of "me".
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.
I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.
*“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote,
*It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”*
And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.
You were always nasty
When you missed me.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
You'll find pointlessness
when you search from the outside --
for any purpose.
Dec 24, 2022
Dec 24, 2022 at 1:58 AM UTC
DEATH OF MAN
Ayad Gharbawi
BOOK ONE
November 25, 2009 - Damascus
So let me speak now on my thoughts that have been gathered from the years of my experiences and from the years of my thinking.
I have come to many conclusions, in a conclusion of my own life.
Let me talk about every subject that concerns you all.
You think of ‘religion’ – and that word has more than one meaning – and I must say that it is not ‘good news’ as so many religious and evangelical people propound.
I tell you my friendless friends that there is NO good news to speak of – at all. It does not exist. That does not mean to say that religious people are lying to you – no, it is just that they are idiots, that’s all.
Why do I say there’s no ‘good news?’ because life is a pile of broken glass, blood, hysteria, panic, depression, failures and ultimate pointlessness.
Let me start from the beginning.
In the beginning, Man was created and he and she are a truly, unbelievably DESPICABLE entity.
That’s my starting point for Man, his History and his so-called Civilisation.
That is my starting point for WHO Man is today as he interacts and talks with other people.
Don’t trust Man!
Don’t believe in Man!
Remember and remember firmly that Man is fundamentally EVIL and you must act accordingly.
If you trusted Man, then you must pay the price.
Why do you then cry?
Didn’t you guess or understand or fathom who this repulsive entity was and is and will be?
Now IF you can actually comprehend that Man is fundamentally evil, then you should be on the Right Path.
Now when I tell YOU that Man is evil, that means that everyone that is around your existence is EVIL.
Your family are evil; your beloved ‘friends’ are evil, your ‘lovers’ are evil, your children are ultimately going to be evil – and this fact particularly HURTS.
The humans in your job are evil. Basically try to understand that EVERONE in your life is evil and act accordingly.
What do these words mean?
These words mean that when your beloved ‘friends’ speak to you then you must pretend and act that you too ‘like’ them. But within your heart, BEAR NO ILLUSIONS! Your ‘friends’ are nothing more than sickening creatures who will one day stab you in your back.
Remember that when humans ‘talk’ to you they do not understand what and why they speak.
Ask your friend this question, ‘Who exactly are you?’
They ought to answer you honestly, ‘I know NOT myself. My Unknown Self’.
ADMIT you humans that you know not who you are!
Think that perhaps you are NOTHING?
Can you understand that question?
Jew Christian Moslem Buddhist Hindu ------- ‘who’ are ‘you’? What is your Self?
What is your Identity?
How can we – we, who do not know you - RECOGNISE you?
And what if we cannot recognise you precisely because your personality is completely unrecognisable?
What if your Self & your Soul are Unrecognisable?
Do you ever – at any flickers of Time – sense & feel that you yourself are Completely Unrecognizable?
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:42 AM UTC
Do your dreams lead you up to Nirvana?
Do you travel on tendrils of foam?
Do you wake in the night, does your heart pound with fright?
Are you scared when they leave you alone?
Are you happy to be a good person?
Do you feel you deserve a good name?
Do you anxiously flout all your money about
And try hard to accumulate fame?
Do you help when a baby is crying?
Do you lend when your best friend is poor?
Have you fought for your rights in political fights
Or just stood by and noted the score?
Does your life feel speciously empty?
Do you cry in despair in your bed?
Is the pointlessness true is it happening to you?
Do you dream you’d be better off dead?
Does it all seem a little like hard work?
Are you ****** off before you begin?
Should you shampoo both hands and discard all those plans
And ignore the egg on your chin?
Are you angry and filled with frustration?
Have you ground your teeth with rage?
Have you mounted a fight before this day is night
And determined to turn a new page?
Are you coming together at long last?
Has the breeding come to the fore?
Is your spine now straight, has your heart lost it’s hate?
Are you showing your shit..the door?
Is euphoria blowing a fresh wind?
Are clear eyes searching the shore?
Has a day not begun without blue sky and sun?
Have you dreamt love might happen once more?
The freshness and sparkle of raindrops,
The smell of new mown hay
Makes the being intense it discards all pretense
And announces hope for this day.
Do your dreams lead you up to Nirvana?
Do you wake with a song in your heart?
Are you ready to fly in this peppermint sky?
Or does something here… blow you apart?
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
18th December 2007
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC