There is a robot that lives in my brain*

Warped
        the shape & sound of thoughts
contort as they rise & fall

in the darkness.

I cannot catch them all.

So now pure instinct reigns supreme
& the Will relents
to every whim
of this self-destructing machine:

object
not a subject;
the It
& not the I.

Or is that just one more excuse?

When tomorrow becomes today,
perhaps it all will change

or stay the same.

*No Future Part 111 – Titus Andronicus

The Madness of Crowds

The talk,
        the talk goes on forever;

unfocused, the tumult of noises sounds
like the symptom of a fever.

I pick out one voice after another,
disappointed as each
seems to me to be a foreign language
I cannot speak.

It’s the silent ones I can understand,
shrouded in loneliness or pensive thoughts
        or maybe just nothing at all.

Are they, like me,
        bewildered
                as to how the past
can blend
from Spring into Winter
so swiftly?

As the noise, the
        noise goes on forever…

Unsaved Document

Returned now to habitude & ugly
old attitudes resume.

Refrain from razor-blades against
                                the skin
but now place them instead between the teeth
so during sleep the mouth
fills with blood

forcing shame to keep
a silence unredeemed
by graceful movement or delicate features;

eyes that do not see the open,
                                absent
of the pulsation, the differentiation
                                separating
life from death, death from dying.

Until, once again, the morning comes when
a mother bends to brush against
                                her child
& the animal rejoins the wild challenge
of existence:

begin a new day, with
different hunters, different prey yet
always the same ancient struggle
                                despite
the panic, the shit, the pain that afflicts
all living things.

Grace is acceptance, grace is
defiance;

for the hunter to eat the prey must die,
& for each to drink
the gaze must sink down toward the water.

There, where the reflection resides.

There, where there is nowhere

                            to hide.

Not Tonight

One hundred years of solitude, within one day,
between four walls.

The ever-returning thoughts of failure;
                                        red to ochre
bloodstains all over the wall,

then the one memory that broke your fall
returns
                                       as the pale shimmer
of a phosphorescent ghost…

No,

not tonight.

Pathétique

For days I’ve said only
half of what I did and didn’t want to say,

& did all that I do every day:

tried to escape.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore
& escape makes such a mess on the floor.

Maybe one day I’ll make a decision
I won’t regret again
        & again
            & again:

always the same,
always failing to stand up to myself
& forgetting
to hide from the scaring knowledge

that all things are pretence
yet everything is true…

but I’m lying to you
            again.

I have no pain
just a feeling of constant nausea
& all the talk of trying to escape

is just a way
to plead for sympathy;

pathetic, really,

            isn’t it?

The War

Is my story more exciting than yours?
Or did you get those scars in a bloodier war?

The pen can be mightier than the sword,
but guns would kill us all.

If only you could summon up the balls,
to stain the floor with your bullet-ridden corpse

                            or

vomit away your soul

                            &

say goodbye with the sound of broken bones
with a leap into the unknown.

Would your mind change before hitting the ground?
Or would you leave with a taste of regret?

The war started before you were ready,
the fighting will fall silent without you knowing,

                            but

you were never ready for anything

at all.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity

Here I’m alive; a mediocre, twice-
failed suicide,
                hypomanic
in hyperreality
writing unremarkable poetry,
failing to be
               Homo Economicus, but
I’m not the only one

I know;
        this system fucks us all,
why do you think so many of us are so depressed?

                There is the voice,
have you heard it too?
                Telling you
it’s all your fault,
a flaw,
a weakness:
            
                – worthless piece of shit,
                can’t just get on with it.
                You’ve got so much privilege:
                just look at how much you can get when
                half the world lives on less than
                you earn in an hour.

                Don’t be so pathetic: you don’t deserve it –

Sometimes, I think the voice is right.

Sometimes,
I realise what it really is:
            
the propaganda of our disgusting society
that’s wormed its way inside of my psyche.

& yet knowing this doesn’t help

because
        this mind of mine can’t find
meaning in
the featherweight consolation
       of ironic distance.
I need
the romance of defiance;
I need
        all or nothing.

When Politics fought Art it ended
with a bullet in Mayakovsky’s heart,
for stamping on the throat of his own song;

when Art met Capital it ended
with Johnny Rotten complaining about homeless people
spoiling the view from his fucking disgusting L.A. mansion…

& when Politics starts fighting Capital,
that’s the sound of the revolution starting.

So now we have a choice to make:

“Revolution or suicide”**

* The Accursed Share – Georges Bataille
** Guy Debord

Acedia

The frayed remains of two daydream decades
listlessly slides glass beads across
an abacus
        one
            by
                one,

        some
are so delicate that they break
upon contact
        & the shards
                are lost
to the permanence of
    forgetting:

the Sun walks away toward the west as
each sunset colour elides the other,
            leaving behind
the blue creeping twilight
            & a shrouded moon

like
                a widow leaves flowers
at the grave of
                a secret lover.

Ignorant of all but their game,
the frayed remains
        sees nothing beyond
            the broken glass,

trapped

in a present moment
       empty of all content:

a skeleton
 
with hollow bones.

The thoughts that follow…

Crossing the unfeeling surface of this
                        ugly city,
lost in broken reveries &
                        the sophistry
of melancholy without origin,

thought begins
to blend into visceral abstraction:

the nausea of a simple creature
wanting only to know why it knows it
                        must suffer.

Wouldn’t it be better
not to think at all,
    to be
        
innocent & free

from the thoughts that follow
    the hollow feeling
        that everything

is meaningless?

                        …but meaning is a concept,

one of thought's
        many children,
so without thought
            there would be no concept
                of meaning to be lost…

through a clumsy succession of steps I
                        try to accept
that the words bring this suffering & yet
are the only source of my salvation:

no affirmation without negation;

                        nothing is something,
            & something
                is nothing
without opposition…

this is what brings me back to a fleeting
            consolation,
        my one broken prize;
a thought
        that isn't mine:

the tree is really rooted in the sky*;
    it is the light
falling continually from above
that provides
        the energy
needed
    to defy gravity,

by finding it's way upwards while
sending roots
    deep into
        the earth.

* Human Personality – Simone Weil

Melancholia

All these years;
the days spent waiting,
        hours just staring

at the walls.

All these years
of blunted & fading,
    wasted & wasting

melancholia…

I push my hands against the sides
of my skull & somehow
    somewhere between them

words form
& disappear…