Poetry: Philosophy Volume 3

Secrecy is pleasurable, in itself by definition

inherent, being a sneaky little guttersnipe

shines a joy for the ages, saying “I did this”

knowing full well that you didn’t is a carnival

festival drunk in daytime new year Christmas day

funeral of a bastard that we all loved, singing drunky loops

by the jukebox, swaying with our fists in the air,

that’s the kind of fun to be found in a lie, especially when

it doesn’t mean anything, because you’ll get it

done before the “authority” knows

the difference, and the pace is yours to decide,

so the fashioning of progress reports is the pit of a port-a-potty

at burning man, all hell smell and maggot

spirit clusters, which, to each his own but is not my idea

of a good time, so I need my box of trinkets

pills and hand-held mirrors, remnants of a freedom

long lamented, kept in a safe and buried.

 

To say lying is never moral is a lie, catch 22

Kant you motherfucker, intellectual Circe

looping logic like olympic rings, writing

as an asshole, but his ideas make weighted

sense, vitally decisive, that which is

categorically imperative, showing logic

is the only law, act only in such a way

that the maxim by which your actions are directed

should become a universal law, for the benefit of all,

which might be true, though we’ll never know

after all is pronounced, because people suck

the big one when it comes to self

control, so laws like these, carefully considered

though they might be, may never survive

the span of a three-day weekend, because

I dream of right angles, straight lines

easy choices just, for they are not

we must consider them, watch yourself.

Poetry: Philosophy Volume 3

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