The Days Flow Away…

The days flow away & through me;
body submerged completely
in the river,
                where the light bends
& quivers
bringing with it
                a vision,
a form of seeing
beyond deceiving perception,
                & choosing
not just appearance,
                but essence:

                the nothingness
which only seems to have being.

                & as such
is not so much a nothingness
as the presence of an absence:

that which lives in me is only a dream.

The tragedy lies only in what I
cannot describe:

the rest is a beautiful,
        hideous
                mess.

The rest
                
            is life.

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 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

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…

Never let me forget…

For S

Never let me forget
how much
I wanted to forget
the way you looked when I left you in bed
this morning,
to face the dawn & the dawning
knowledge that the futile elegance of
transcendent vision
allowing us to see
the meaningless mystery
of everything,
means nothing to me
compared to you.

As every breath in my lungs
pulled like wet leaves through mud,
you looked
so beautifully
at peace:

a rare orchid on the far shore of sleep…

In that moment
knowing
I had to tear myself away from you
only to throw myself into
the world where bullshit reigns supreme,
felt like a betrayal
because I forced myself
to forget:

Forgive me.
It was the only way
I could make myself leave the bed;
leave the island of peace
where our bodies press together,
to travel across the filthy sea
of the city
that doesn’t give a fuck about you or me
– or anybody at all –
to work for the wealth of others,
so that we can sleep beneath
a roof & between warm walls;
& we
can eat without the need
to raid bins to survive, & I
can return to you again.

So never let me forget that this human world we live in
is disgusting
& you
are the only reason
I remain within it.