It starts so soon, because the internet’s fucked
in the head sometimes, and as atrophy is death,
life is philosophy, churning water memories
boiling a steam line to the secrets
of the universe, pilot a model boat
home by nightfall, chugging soft quick
bubble pounding, an artistic metaphor
to be sure, but in myriad ways less
then meaningful, it’s pretty not import.
If consideration replaces boredom in my heart
I will be more, or less depending
on the breaks of the waves, fortune is a fire
tornado, leafing away buildings
to skeletal dissonance, so what’s the use
of reason at heart, justification turmoil is political
gamesmanship, my mind lies on
my tongue, introducing indistinguishable
ideals and setting them to a death duel.
The world is war, whether it outs
ever or not, for every pinprick is
a disaster waiting, coming in threes
fours and fives, or just never-ending,
so if life is pain what is the point of poetry?
Poetry is above points, obviously, but
there’s an intriguing question behind
the question, what is the point
of questioners, without a god above.
Who are they to listen to us?
My questions are not for loan
or lease, and less are they mine
at all in the first place, every question
is birth stone bestowed, left to be
discovered someday, smashed open
and scattered in dust, sprinkling onto
words, so all must be related, somehow.