Why Optimism is Non-Sense

The sorry, sniffling nostrils cannot appreciate the floral airs.

Sadness masking true beauty, and who is to blame?

Should the scent be stronger, pollen larger, 

senses driven to heightened sensitivity to compensate 

to allow the appreciation of the fragrant midst the stench. 

Should the touch of the rough be ignored for the smooth, 

Or the sight of the pretty deny that of the ugly? 

What sights, dear optimists, should be etched retinally 

when ugliness is my availability? 

I'd rather see the sorrow, and know its presence.
I'd rather guilt than denial.
I'd rather hear the cries, than drown them out.
I'd rather sadness than joy.
I'd rather recognise the inconvenient, 

I'd rather one have awareness of the problem, all the better to fix it. 

To Death

That never sweetly comes.
An arrogant boatman,
Carried by the currents of nurture, love and loss,
Blown by the reliable tradewinds of time,
Pulled to shore by the waves of indignity.
You'll believe suicide can be brave.

We all talk of curtain's close,
the actors retreat.
But the stage remains.
The seats too.
Empty.

From the lowliest, to heroes.
Black suits mean no glory.
It's washed away on the pallid face.
Poignant poems and posies
and the sombre horse drawn hearse
just another sunset in a war.

"Is it dark?" I wonder,
"When you have no concept."
And as my doll-like figure, fragile,
stumbles druggedly, I know.
Soon I'll find out.
I'm scared.
Soon I'll find out.

The Trouble

There’s no God in the wild,
only spirits getting riled,
Life and flesh all defiled,
I only hope my death’s in style.

Because one thing: it’s certain.
Sunset and the curtains.
Life and death always flirtin’.
The fleeting life of a person.

The dark path, ever paved.
There’s nobody getting saved.
In hindsight, having felt is so depraved.
There’s no feeling in the grave.

Every breath huffing, puffing.
all the hard living and roughing,
all the guilt from the bluffing.
no one told me it means nothing.

Thoughts through my head,
trails I have led.
True word I’ve said.
Empty, now I’m dead.

So why is it worth it?
Trying to be perfect
people act like they deserve it
when they’re as impermanent as the rest.
Now I’m at rest
I truly detest
those undergoing the test
and still living
under illusion,
so much confusion,
what does it mean?
If I told you nothing,
you would be green!
Envy overcoming your essence,
If it means nothing,
why do I suffer these lessons?
What is God
If not the memory of my impressions?
if not the quintessence?
of everything, every soul, every being?
if it means nothing,
then what I am seeing?
Is any of it real?
This, the trouble I feel. 

Cold Fear

Cold fog curses creep through my brain,
under my skin like parasites
and leeching my bad blood.
Ground to dust,
Ground to dust,
those dreams you once cradled.

Incompetent fool and idle thinker,
roll up your sleeves.
There’s more to come from you yet.
Another lashing will see to that.
Pile up the tasks,
Pile up the tasks,
Arbeit Macht Frei.

Homogeneity
Fall into line. Straighten up your tie.
Polish your shoes with the rags,
they’re all you have and all you need.
Mirror like shine,
Mirror like shine,
But no face looks back through the cracked leather.

I am the ethereal.
Burned, ripped material.
Bound for a hell that doesn't exist
and living in one that does.
Pull yourself together,
Pull yourself together,
as if that’s possible when you’re split in two.

 We stay as children. 

Empathy

From my low, yet lofty position,
I wish I knew your struggle.
But my own is enough to tell me
yours is far greater.

I feel it, though I don't know it.
I strive against it, though I don't know it.
I respect it, though it escapes me.

You are my brother, my sister.
You are my equal in humanity,
but in suffering, you are my teacher.

I hope one day to understand,
through your teaching,
your difficulties.

So I may better fight for us all.

Sorry Queen

Run deep, ravines
of crippling blood-red tears
down cheeks so mercilessly sagging,
aged and sorry beyond their years.

Gnarled hair frames
a face so young
yet battered, beaten, bruised and born
into a world too uninviting.

And yet hope,
alive and burning bright,
dwells in the eyes that adorn this face
like jewels in a crown of human glory.

Aye, she is Queen of All.
The land surveyed in minds so frayed
and sorrow paths tread.
She owns them all.

And while I am disease,
she is immune to ire, sorrow, blight and scorrn.
Of such purity was she born
that I merely bow before her.

Oh that She, So troubled Queen
could, through her own eyes be seen
as the wonder I see before myself.
I give her all my faith.

The Statue

The whole atmosphere seemed to spark into flame as I depressed the wheel on my lighter. The faint yellow-orange glow was all the illumination I had, and all the illumination I needed. All of life’s mysteries solved in the sucking of a cigarette. Stars glittered above me like the burning tar in that grey and black flecked end, slowly drawn inwards, inhaled, exhaled, extinguished.

The ground beneath my feet was cold, causing an itchiness on my soles. The unevenness becoming more, then less noticeable as the frost numbed my feet. Becoming more sensitive the closer they came to the inevitable numbness of cold. I could not see what was beneath my feet, save for that small moment of light, and all that was revealed to me then was that this was the place I always stood and a place I would never leave.

I’m not sure if there’s significance in any of it. I look for it, sometimes. Scanning horizons I cannot see, trying to make out figures passing in the darkness. I thought I saw a cat once, but I can’t be sure. I don’t think I even know what a cat is anymore. Always peering sightlessly through the black for a chance at a glimpse at what I used to know. I had a family once, but they’re gone now, lost in that same black haze that enveloped the world when I was put here, on this spot. I often imagine how I would feel if I were to see my wife running, her face lit up with a bright halo above her head, her arms outstretched in a manner with which to embrace me. Then I remember I used to have a wife, and she doesn’t exist now. Then I realise how I am fooling myself. I remember no one loves me. Memories are horrible things, teasing reminders of a better past, or harsh reminders of a shitty present when lost in fantasy. If the function of them is to learn from them, I think it must be rather lost on most people. It’s not fate that causes the repeat of history, it’s stupidity. I know, I have watched it unfold from this very spot.

I often wonder what they’d have done if they’d been there. When I was taken, there was no one to hold me back. There was no one there to fight my battle for me – a trait many people foolishly believe to be admirable. A lack of unity causes battle, unity avoids it. Fighting alone is inevitable defeat, fighting at all is foolish. Together, resistance alone can crush the hubris of conquest. With the help of others, with their resistance, I would not be stood here. Divide et impera taken to its logical extreme by turning us all into competing individuals against one another. So here I stand alone, wishing for others to stand with me.

I’ve never seen a sunrise. Never felt the kiss of the pale moonlight upon me. I yearn for another day to come for me. To end this incessant Void I see before me. Am I sleeping? I don’t know. Sometimes I think I must be. I am only acknowledged by myself, as if lost in that egocentric maelstrom of subconsciousness. Is it that I am alone? Or are others out there awaiting my awakening? Am I waiting on others, or they me? I don’t know. If that were they case, surely they would wake me? If I am dreaming, and people wished me awake, they would wake me. None wake me. Therefore I am either all alone, stood here stoically; or I am so despised by the world they don’t want me to awaken and blight their days with my consciousness.

I can’t feel my feet now. I can’t feel anything, save for that prevailing wind that erodes my skin, until I inevitably crumble into the dust from whence I came.