Doubt


So bored of throwing stones
around the glass house of consciousness;
of exalting or bemoaning
        existence.

Too many words already written &
even more waiting to arrive,
so why continue to
        write?

Is it only to kill the time,
or find some way to bridge
the vast divide
        between us all?

Or maybe a failed attempt to deny
that the Rise is really the Fall;
there will never be a way to
        escape alive.

& the words will continue regardless,
unmoved by constant confusion & doubt.

The Damned

Consider that colour is given to us
in plentitude
from games played by light &,

that the liquidity of water is
a feature of a particular performance
between specific particles
bonding with each other
                        & yet
no individual actor has
the property of ‘being wet’.

What does that mean to you?

If it means nothing,
congratulations:

you can thrive in this world, but
if you strove to find any semblance
of pattern
        or symbol,

you’re fucked.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part ii

Living like this, through years-worth of wine-stained
painting on canvases of lying lips,

always breaking, always confused
with nothing left I’d hate to lose,
 
no single cell free of abuse;
through days trailing nights of half-honest,

moronic,
worst forms of self-help:

the drink, the drugs & the meaningless fucks.
Finding then failing to hold onto love.

An endless mire in which to wallow,
& cover myself in the mud.

Carving a semblance of meaning
by short-selling future living.

Scavenging for real or former feelings
to feed the worms that never stop eating.

Desperate grasps for hopeful moments,
for some sweetly fleeting comfort…

This is what it is to be in pieces,
to be comforted by your diseases:

these interchangeable scenes, these
dislocated repeating memories,

hoping for something beyond me,
for protection by all these words,

but all along I was wrong:

words are no protection at all.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part i

Writing

You want to put the barrel of the gun in their mouth,
to stop the noise drowning the music out;

in thrall to the curvatures described by birds in flight
& feelings inscribed in nameless streelights.

You want a language defiant of time:

                                    indelible lines,
chords of memory
                                    transcendental & sublime,

the contingencies of life unified
into one
        single

                song.

You want what you cannot have:

an abstract/visceral expression of all that

unknowable,
                                    ephemeral

sound enclosed within bones
where the brain sits
& compels you to this
                                    futile release,

the fading gaze of a caged beast,

never the same as it's first raw moment
of existence.