The problem isn’t what to do
Because nothing is worth doing;
The problem is what to do
When it’s all worth so pursuing.
The intricacies of indecision
In harbouring the inadequacy
Of clear-cut moral precision.
Half-heartedly playing society’s game —
Whole-heartedly holding on to the pain;
Elliptically remaining the same,
Stunned by the cyclical appreciation
Of art and “artists”, of people and values
Who congratulate depreciation
And believe what’s on the news.
The world has so much more;
Untapped, because upheaval
Doesn’t interest those with interest
Adding to their wealth.
But wealth is not an evil —
Who stated such a lie?
Wealth isn’t money, or greed — it’s
How it feels to comfortably get by.
So who is really rich?
The bankers or the businessman?
The ones who scratch the itch?
Wealth is to understand.
Yes — to know that life is worth living.
If only because death is written;
One may as well see it out
In the hope that one is smitten.
Sweet sorrow in parting, as such —
That’s the spirit; realising that
We all possess a certain
Lying awake, concentric circles
Channel Christ in the dark —
Not because he’s a supposed God’s son —
But because he got things done.
His life and death mattered,
If only in allegory —
But who could ask for more
Than a part in the story?
And so the pages press together
As the syntax encapsulates semantics;
We hold fast to optimism
Because we’re all Romantics.
The problem isn’t what to do
Because nothing is worth doing:
Life is glorious because each day
Is endlessly renewing.
Life is meaningless. If you can’t see that,
Open your eyes. Work to the bone —
Work hard with the weight of the fact.
Smile in crowds — cut when alone.
You and I both know that all of this
Is but dust in the wind. Make
What you want. Shit. Clench your fist:
In the end, she’ll take
It all. There’s no getting out alive —
But why succumb? Why be a slave
And waste your greatest years? You could thrive.
Instead, you’ve earned got a pension and a cosy grave.
Alienation’s a buzzword — but why not use it?
I was born to die, and I know it well:
I’d rather spend it all than lose it.
You know, I really believe in hell:
It’s a life spent from 9 till 5 in the search for cash.
You have a boss? Well good for you:
I’d rather spend 70 years being thrashed
Than do what someone else tells me to.
You know what — why finish this?
Why fulfil your fucking expectations?
Why splell correctly? fuck correxions.
I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. Whether love or hate, birth or death — whether writing in rhyme or spilling over the fucking line — FUCK YOU whilst I sail away and drown myself. Stop reading this poem and passing judgement; quit your job and quit the society too. None of this is real. We’re animals grazing in the mud. Enjoy it. You have the ability to think, to love and to give weight to “being”. Do that. Don’t answer your fucking emails. Don’t finish your fucking degrees. YOU CAN’T TAKE THEM WITH YOU. Yes, you need money to eat. (You don’t.) Will money keep you happy when you’re sleeping alone because you wanted to make money rather than spend another night with your lover? You’re already dead. I’m going to be depressed in the future, and I’ve been depressed in the past, but right now? I know the secret to living life. That’s to take what everyone says, spit on it and write your own story. I couldn’t give a fuck what happens next, because right now I know exactly what it was all about. So to my future self, and everyone else: do something, or kill yourself. You’ll never catch me up cause I know what really matters more. Can you guess? Is it FUCKING MONEY, or a FUCKING KISS?
What pre-dates a predator?
One vacuous bitch with transparent motives,
Flimsy morals and who’s life’s a bore —
So much so that she broke a votive
‘Cause she’s a wannabe nihilist trendsetter —
But you’ve no idea how to do it,
So I’ll help you one last time in this poem-cum-letter.
Start with your greatest mistake, and rue it:
Multiply that shit, and turn around —
Fear the shadow of the person who failed,
And ask who could argue so unsoundly,
And believe that they were unjustly jailed?
Yeah — you — now what’s a predator to do?
Two options really: — no, make that three —
Kill yourself, obsess about it, or start anew.
What’s the difference between you and me?
You’re a wannabe bad girl, an impersonator;
You’re an arrogant blonde bitch and libido terminator —
And whereas you live life through stale memories, I force mine to fade:
You’re the biggest mistake I ever fucking made.
I’ve been writing poetry for years now. Never once have I written a poem and thought: “I can stand by this”. I am making it my goal to change that fact. I am aiming for perfection in my poetry now. Not objective perfection, but perfection as adherence to my own standards for my work. I may have come close with some poems before, but I am dedicated to writing poems which distill my life into the few words the poem contains. I am happy to stand by my novels, and I believe that they are true works of art — now I am embarking on the path to achieving the same pride in my poetry.
* * *
The search goes on, although
The rules never change.
Views hang like mist, but
Beliefs remain. We are
Locked in to who we are
Trapped in a thinking cage.
Poke your fingers through:
Hope to touch
But resign to your nature.
You cannot escape.
The human condition
Governs us. From
First to final breath, from
Birth to ugly death.
Feel free to dream
And hope –
These are your provisions.
Ration them. Do
Aim for peace. Do
Learn to love the cage.
Bang against its rusting bars
And bleed your aesthetic throat:
Do it to mask the fact that
Though you know these truths,
The search goes on.
Do it to pretend that
The rules never change.
Quiet, placid place
Where waves of grey never crash;
Only folding sensuously.
A beautiful compliment
To the pleasing sky above.
Of familiar colours –
A nature scene that
Somehow echoes home
With all the safety,
All the comfort, and
As many people present
As you’d like — the
Golden ratio, which fall
(Softly) according to
Your selfish wish.
But selfishness exists not
Here; relaxation, peace
And meditation are all.
In fact, the more I
Search this island of mine,
The more like reality it seems.
How can this be so?
This perfect place of mine,
As described in my dream
Is none other than
My eternal home –
An idealised, aesthetic
Distillation of my pride –
Two eyes firmly fixed on his feet,
Too anxious to look, talk or meet
Another too-critical being:
No one should see what he is seeing.
Darkness in all: smiles disfigured;
Weak wills everywhere — too much lust,
Too much hatred — not enough trust.
Pavement holds his gaze all day long;
Keep your head down — he can’t go wrong
If no one knows he exists –
Let alone the scars on his wrists.
Don’t pay him attention: it’s not
His wish — secrecy’s all he’s got.
He really doesn’t ask for much –
All he asks is that you don’t touch.
Time is at the back of my mind
Always solemnly stood
Always slipping away
My looming death understood.
The greatest sapper of strength;
How old am I now? Drawn thin
Over maximal length.
Bead of sweat trickling slowly
Down my brow and past my eye;
How can that be the time? –
I haven’t found out why:
Why I dream the things I do;
Why I love and hate so vehemently –
Why I aim for such heights
So quickly, so confidently.
Am I defined by singular
Moments of instinctive chance?
Or am I the series?
Sum-total or momentary glance?
Passionate moments by far — by far –
My fondest memories,
Yet life is spent in waiting;
Thus passion atrophies.
The heat of blood once boiling
Cools to the point of freezing –
Regret sets in — in horror
My nerves need swift appeasing.
Who am I? ——
If not that passionate man,
Then who? The in-between totality?
The being I first began?
More and more it seems to me that ‘I’
Was never very fixed –
Always (just like the present)
Hovering there — betwixt.
Betwixt two times: one where words
(My mind: words never died)
The other — wherever …
Wherever ‘I’ am now:
Here I don’t quite feel at ease;
Confident — yet paranoid;
Fading away by degrees.
Like the paradox of the heap
I’m lost under inspection:
I exist solely during
Moments of self-reflection.
To be uploaded.
An eyebrow traced across your face
Defines your existence thus:
Arching and delicately laced
With moral strength and trust.
That such a simple undulation
Contains your total essence
Necessitates this exclamation:
You, Beauty’s quintessence.
They say that poetry is dead:
Well, let them waste their breath –
Your face alone will do instead.
You alone ward off death.
Smoothest skin, features perfect;
A most disarming smile –
Are you the subject — or object
Of beauty? Let’s think awhile:
“Beauty is subjective,” you say –
Well so too is life’s meaning,
But life is already underway.
Now for poetic gleaning:
Subjective it may be, but still
We live though this were false:
Your beauty is permanent, and still –
Regardless time or pulse.
How — how can I argue like this?
After much meditation:
The point, I’m sure, no one will miss:
Here lies adoration.
Yes: your eyebrows, your eyes, your form
Are great aesthetic gifts –
But where I from other men transform
Is precisely in this:
Though your timeless, beautiful face
Is where I did begin –
The secret to your infinite grace
Is that it is within.
Some call it the cousin of death
Whilst others long for a lie-in;
I change my mind with every breath –
“A waste,” when awake — but lying,
I find myself in earthly bliss –
Free to explore philosophic
Fancy, whether sharp or remiss –
The joy of a life diastolic.
But what torture is sleeplessness!
Tossing, turning, thinking, yearning
Of could have beens — true restlessness:
Foe to peace of mind and learning.
No good can come from a poor night’s sleep;
Just misery and tired bones.
Always at night our fears will creep
And play sly melancholy tones.
I dread the inevitable times
That I become insomniac.
As sure as these successives rhymes
I’m proven no hypochondriac.
A mind thus wired for success
Necessitates wide eyes at night:
These whirring cogs I must suppress –
I’ll save penetrative thoughts till light.
(The lights are out — I’m whispering:
Sleepy now — hope you’re listening –
Know that genius never sleeps:
In dreams, a genius makes leaps!
A genius alone knows this:
Sleep truly is pure earthly bliss.)