Archive 04/03/10 - (4)

   

Being or Somethingness

                                                                  

How is it that when we shrivel up to nothing,

We yet retain a semblance of being or somethingness?

I can't say.

 

I'm not wizened, wrinkled, desiccated, prunish enough,

Have not even reached the tender age of seventy;

My ninety-five-year-old mother still calls me her "baby."

 

But I digress ever so slightly —

I guess that's what you call it

When all you can say, speculate, ejaculate, is "I can't say."

 

Perhaps it has to do with aging, decaying,

With the be-all-and-end-all enigma of degradation,

When the psyche's lights flicker but don't go dark,

 

Just dim to a perpetual twilight filled with screeching bats —

Phantom aberrations and anomalies with red eyes,

Wings that flutter, like scythes, through withered grass.

 

Again, I digress, this time into useless gratuitousness.

So, now, let me ask, "What the fuck do we have

When we shrivel up to bat guano?" "Nothing but pure shit."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                               

 

04/03/10 - (4)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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