Poem: Philosophy Volume 2

Poetry is forever vague, or merely thinly visible

like a fog, by the sense of it, unstructured

is the only way to be floating

cotton candy clouds, so like that

they point heaven’s way, maybe

this will be useful, to be beautiful

in pace and form, syllable structure

staccato, wise and deeply considered, flowing alike

a face first waterside, whooshing a’ la wave wind

whiskers, whatever again, point is

I can get distracted by the language, I apologize

for nothing, as this may come to a head

but I don’t care, because that would be the point.

 

Not yet however, as this is only volume

two, of how many I don’t know

there will be in the end, if one ever comes

like it will to everything, because topics may reveal

themselves at an accelerated rate, and probably

never finish, but I wonder what

I’ll uncover, and I’ll die in the attempt

to see the truth, so be it, for the destination

is a journey questioning existence?

 

Is it true that every journey, grand day out

tennis tournament and tea party, refutes the supposition

that we live in a Skinner box, prodded cattle through

holes in the sides, of course not, for as freedom

resides inside, you see in yourself that the matrix

is real after all, perhaps being the only solution

to be hoped for, there is no reason to peek

behind the curtain, really, as there is

no air in the open, either.

Poem: Philosophy Volume 2

Poem: Author!

It’s life is our pessimism, flowing from the roots

up, until it makes a river, blood and bile, marrow and semen

flowing its life down

every embankment, in every divot

we planted without forethought, retracting

we are from the consequences

infinitely fracturing, bigger and bigger than bigger

until I can’t breathe, realizing it’s effect was more

in time than I could bear, it was what I marked on the card

at the speed-dating lecture, is what it felt like

reminding me of college like a boner

sitting in a room of your peers, looking at the ground

until you live in the hole you bore with your eyes.

 

Definitely through the day and whatever

hell will come, eventually a shining pegasus

will scorch the air, you’ll be baked and sizzled,

to speak bluntly, but you’re wrong and have been

for some time, that shining is a heaven

sent perfume, a spiritual smog, like a fog

thick and matted, but finally cuts the knowledge

that you’re an idiot,

undoubtedly, to know that the love lies

within, and if you find it in your everyday, you are the one

to survive the cataclysm, just wear a t-shirt and cheer

for nothing.

 

But I suppose I would if I could

is a sentiment that really means something, I would

undoubtedly, but it means nothing

so what would I care?  It is a stupid word

used by the rich, leisured and elite

like the vikings, they realized that truth is better

than poetry, because truth is understood

in your bones and your blood, if you clarify

the word fog, here at the end, for no purpose

do I write like this, because what matters is

what you think, not the author

and his big dick

Poem: Author!