The only poem that matters.
By Luke Labern
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?
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?
A Poem,
Published 20 March 2013
Published 20 March 2013