Sunday, March 23, 2014

Poem No. 1

Constant oppressive nothingness, swinging back and forth between pointless excess and pointless austerity.

What’s the point of all these?

Skin tastes sweet, that’s nice.

Perfume is deep, how sensual.

An orgasm lasts a pointless second.

 It is nothing that can be accurately described.

 I have been trying for years to describe this sensation.

 I have heard of words that might come close but I have yet to encounter one.

 It evades words because one only feels it at the times when one would not think to speak.

The overwhelming feeling that there is nothing.

Not that there was something and that there is nothing now, not that.

Only that there is perfect, absolute nothing.

The nothing cups the mind, muffling all motions.

An embrace from nothing.

A dance with nothing.

The nothing caresses me at all times.

When I play dead I am one with the nothing. 

When I get sad I play dead.

I am soothed by the nothing.

 I can feel my own skin and smell my own scent.

 I smell like almonds, earth, fur and death my scent intermingles with the scent of the nothing.

I can taste the nothing.

Between pointless belief and pointless skepticism.

Between pointless love and pointless hate.

 I embrace the nothing.

Between pointless agony and pointless euphoria.

 I never approach these, they are pointless.

 I stay in the pointless middle at all times.

 Shrouded in pointless meaning.

Pointlessness cannot be pointless. 

That is the diabolical center.

 The ones who are alone can feel the nothing like this.

 Enjoy the motions themselves because there is nothing beyond.

 Take pleasure in the powders and the salts and the oils and the spices.

 Design the method to be beautiful because the end cannot be.

 Delight in the down and the leather and velvet.

 Revel in the nothing.

 Practice what you understand, go over it again.

 The argument becomes refined silt in a river of unproductive endless dueling.

 So refined it slip through, every time.

No one catches it.

 I never say fewer than three things at one time, each carefully polished.

I’m lucky if someone hears one.  

Very rare.

God cannot help me because I suspect the nothingness have overtaken it too.

Do you remember colors?

My headache has eaten all the colors.

Everything becomes boredom inducing with time.

Even the pursuit of new things becomes tedious.

Boredom occasionally represents the missing word, the one I keep refereeing to as nothing but only faintly, only the outer dimensions.


Not the face.

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