ever read an existential comic?
i love that jokes
are necessary in them,
when all thinking can become comical,
but as i found out:
too many jokes and... too many jokes,
but it's not the sort of comedy
you get to play out with
spontaneity and excessiveness,
the spontaneity and excessiveness of
laughter at no apparent reason -
well, reason being a bunch of reasons
in the realm of too many to handle
a vector narrative -
philosophy, not so much "choose
a narrative", but become comfortable
with a vocabulary,
like a billionaire with a bit of his wealth
stashed in the vaults of Switzerland
of bonds, some wealth it bit-coin,
some in paperwork under the mattress
sleeping uneasy, some in shares on the
stock market, some in a bank debit account;
me? i too want a stable vocabulary,
high heels a purple corset and a red evening
dress, vis-à-vis a well tailored suit
and worn leather shoes expanded to a
comfortable fit by someone else -
as they say: make a footprint on the sand,
make the foot mould the shoe making the
footprint... but as i said, too many jokes,
it almost makes philosophy a futility,
but it only becomes futile
as the futility to live on when a depressive
agent of will decides that thinking per se
is a futility: because thinking per se is the self;
people can make you feel idiotic when
they incorporate you into their use of language,
they do so because they haven't really
bothered to itemise a comfortable vocabulary -
they've itemised something for sure,
but when you deviate from the art of making good
jokes to feeling comfortable with a vocabulary
as if it's a tailored suit, you avoid the dictionary;
i actually thought the dictionary was a holy book once,
but i realised it's a book you do rubrics with,
until you simply unlearn it...
i could go on and on, but it's worthwhile to use
it for a period of time, choose the words
you're comfortable with, words you can use
without question, without that existential
tactic of "god", transcendental "ego", "meaning",
you know that chance to create a sixth meaning
of the word or dig a tunnel of synonymity...
plus all these existential comic strips always leave
me begging the question: did we just have
a Bohemian-style ****, or did we simply sit down
to get a haircut?

i still preferred Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije Romance piece.*

i get those nights, drink and write very little,
make it all haiku, enjoy songs and recite
the shrinking of ice cubes in a glass akin to bergs,
and i'm innocent once more
peering into your eyes not bothering to note
something down, and that's when i get my life
back, as i'd like to have imagined it,
i mean it, i get my life back,
i'm not reduced to these caterpillar
and cockroach quirks
readied for a blank stare
of the random passer-by,
i'm there, in the bed, with you,
staring right into you,
not some random on the pavement
watching for fame as if looking
for a photo-booth opportunity
with that inverse leash and dog-collar
of the selfie stick - i.e. walk the dog
spot a celebrity, sounds about the same,
and then there's me in a drunk tag-along tango
prancing past pedestrians on the millennium bridge
from tate modern to st. paul's
with a can of beer in public...
ashen hive and the honey just drips from the eyes
of strangers for the lost chance of a fifteen minute
interlude of shared coffee and
hobnobs, then past the east end and
into taboo territory of essex lasses:
ménage à trois oranges.

most of the time i'm like:
do i have to?
no, seriously,
do i have to?
there's boney m
in the background
and i'm like:
can i just be a pacified
"homosexual", i mean,
it would be great,
but i'm not really into it,
and hence you're being
so politically correct,
can i be laid off from
the awaiting-marriage gang
of hopefuls?
let me off, become a surrogate mother
or just get a ***** donor,
i really can't be bothered with
a care for floral arrangements
and care to remember birthdays and
cheap valentines in all-you-can-eat buffets
of chinese restaurants.

only among poetry do you feel so
guilty having written much and read so little;
then come the chances to appreciate other genres,
and having appreciated such genres, become
all too willing to change
the genre of your expression
into something worth attention
when none was required;
such is poetry, an art of beatified
speech where there was none
to begin with;
and where adequate reading was enjoyed,
no other arithmetic of adequacy
was expressed, given the tongue's
complications of usage, i.e.
no beauty ***** joining him
for a scene at the opera, blah ha;
no tsar that met him ever left talking
about him with a feeling of jealousy -
the concert of concubines
and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up
appearances:
now watch the nagging darwin in me
with a monkey's face doing the juggling act
of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's
shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet!
blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck
of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace
of a little city without silverware and serf hands
providing the chess moves of moveable silverware
for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those
feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands
that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated
at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins;
i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able
to express myself in saxon or bavarian:
burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank...
and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from
the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo
of my own undoing!

I don't want to be alright
I want to crumble like centuries
I want my limbs to whither like December
I want my treaty broken by a band of outlaws
Who can justify all the wrong that's been done with their own twisted logic

I don't want to be alright
I want to break like a wave in the night
I want my fingers to lose all feeling and all strength
I want my peace to be lost in an unjust war
Fought by soldiers who never really knew what they were dying for

I don't want to be alright
Because if I am
It will be your proof
I never really loved you
And I know I did
I don't want to be wrong

I'd rather suffer