you
are here, in derangement, with no possible recourse back to the lands of life.
you neither laugh nor cry. you make no particular effort, either sudden or prolonged,
to kill yourself other than through the slow molecular bombardments of having
arrived here and the knowledge of there now being no escape. the exile is irrevocable.
you plod along, ecstasy and faith behind you, love having lost its cloak and status
even in dream. your species routinely presents itself – almost visually now as
you move furtively into the world to obtain food and light – as worms singing
their putrescent glory, their writhing statements regardless of the source or
content, their accumulated anguish or abiding cruelty the decaying heat of
dumpsters. you sit in darkness and write the little movements of your
sensations. not directly and rawly, which even then would hardly guarantee any
intensity or interest, but abstrusely, in dry florid metaphor, with a kind of
clunky broken intellectualism which reminds more of a windup toy that can’t
quite fully stop, still occasionally twitching, rather than any vital curiosity
or intelligence. you sit in your committed tedium and watch the shadows of your
sensations flicker in the sarcophagus of your soul and record not even what you
see – those variegated and morphing greys – but the sensations evoked in your
deadness from watching the shadows. you’re so removed from anything resembling
existence you only continue to cling to a physical form because of the random
fact of your having been born into an economically privileged nation and the lingering
legacies of a middleclassness you despise. perhaps worst of it all – you like
it. and when you slip into an easy pathetic virtue, praising your courage, the
fortitude and distinction of your isolation – these waste products of oblivion –
you pile rotting pink sugar buns on your tepid charred remains, which aren’t
even warm enough to create any smoke : the sugar buns just sit there,
consolidations of fatuous stupidity, symbols of your wretched hypocrisy and
blithering mediocrity. all this might have a faintly endearing silliness to it
if anyone saw or read it. but no. you’re unseen, unheard, unread – an irrelevancy
with unfortunate years still left to babble your pedantic idiocies to yourself,
leaking used stagnant energy from the bedpan of your spirit onto an already
overpolluted earth
to have entered these spaces and find them tangentially comic, remotely inspiring …
to be fond of them and nurture them like kittens. to tell yourself – and tell
simultaneously the delusions of these tellings – they’re narratives of noble
protest, grand or even petty gestures of anything ...
those who don't know that the foundation is lacking, who are satisfied with wise
maxims, while they would be reduced, if they suddenly knew, to the absurd, to
pleading. i waste my time in wanting to warn. tranquility, goodnaturedness, genteel
discussion as if war … and when i say war.
decidedly, no one looks squarely
at the sun, the human eye evades it … the skull of god bursts … and no one hears
i have the time to open the door to the apparent disorder of my ideas
