The known are dead. Your knowing, killed them.
Unknown alive. Awaiting death.
Piece by piece, rots your meat.
Or ripes to be feasted ‘pon.
You’d think fire absolves you.
That you’ve made the maggots happy; or a vulture or a fish even.
Ha ha ha ha ha..
You always fall down the stairs you systematically built.
It hurts; Breaks you. Wipes you off.
You are now but a memory, until a last neuron snaps man.
Here is a happy thought. Life flushes you down like a fat man taking a dump.
What can you do?
Wither at the eventuality of nothingness?
Hither to the other end like everything else you know?
Would you tuck your tails between your legs as you do so?
Or to remain an unknown? A lost?
An agent of change?
Feed a few poor heads? Stomachs?
Lead the planet to sustainablity?
Be a cog that shifts the wheel around?
You think I know what happens?
The only thing that I know is to be me.
To be me is to love.
To love myself, my world, my planet, my language.
To be me is to know that I owe this much to the world.
To the ones that are dead.
To the ones that are alive and are not priviliged.
To the ones that are priviliged not knowing how to love.
I owe it to myself.
To be is to do.
To be is to be.
It is both and nothing. At the same instant of time. To be is to do is to be and to be is just be or be a has been or never been with or without doing nevertheless.
Confusing right? Throw the towel maybe? Resort to philosophy? Occam’s razor would do the deed you think? Fuck it. I will tell you what I am thinking right now. If it changes, and when it changes and I know it will, I will let you know.
A little romance in this existential crisis is all we need.
A little romance in this existential crisis is all we need even if it means that the life stares back at you with absolute disgust. Vultures peck at you like the way they were supposed to. Don’t give up. Romanticize. Practice it.
Romance the self, language, women, men, animals, oceans, rivers, paintings, computers, mathematics.
Romance whatever mankind has been romanticizing so far and will romanticize in future.
You romanticize my man. You can even romanticize that certain death whic will put you out of your miserable happiness.
You know! Write a beautiful poem about death that everybody loves. It doesn’t matter even when you realize that you have lied about it. That death just shoves you down with the brute force truth about how invaluable you are. That no matter what you make of it, it just wouldn’t give a shit.
You thought this was a poem? That I would make sense to you?
Ha ha ha ha ha….