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The Party
Folder:
NO EYELIDS
The development of ages
waits for no one.
You could call it fate
if the lightning strikes
at the passionate core
of a soulful sequence.
You could also call it
a divine puppet show
if the Creator controls
and contorts us
from an ancient alien orb.
Whatever it is,
I came to the party
with patient pestilence
and imperfect
lava-like pontification.
I like how the poem begins
I like how the poem begins with what one might call philosophical considerations, and then brings these forwaord into the mundane event of a party; and then those final three lines provide such incisive knowledge of human nature.
Starward
Thanks Cosmonaut
A perilous party, a fiendish frenzy, a sad swan dive into disillusioned destiny -- all notions in an effort to reinforce the message of my unfit and uncertain coexistence. I am actually a little hysterical since I can't ever seem to grasp, not in the slightest, what reality means to me. There is not much pleasure in being the victim of a neverending elaborate lie. So I know that I must quit worrying and go with the flow -- isn't that what the prophets preach nowadays, with Banana Brains and makeshift monkey madness, to sedate our souls?
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues
I think that the thoughts you
I think that the thoughts you expressed in your reply indicate that you do not have an unfit and uncertain existence, but that you are deeply aware of the unfit and uncertain existences of most of the people who live in this world. Consider Eliot's attitude in The Waste Land: that poem is a monument to the unfit and uncertain existences that surrounded him and that, for a little while, he believed reflected his own soul's state. But he realized that Poets and other Artists feel these anomalies much more profoundly, even disturbingly, than most people do. Another example: the Ripper murders in London, of 1888, shocked and disturbed a lot of people, but a year later those murders were merely old news. But Bram Stoker felt the shock and horror so deeply and disturbingly, that he embodied those feelings in a novel he originally called Count Vampyre but retitled it as Dracula. Some scholars believe, and I happen to believe them, that he created the whole narrative of that novel to express that contemporary horror; as Eliot did so three decades later in his great poem; and as you are doing so now. Do not, for a single second, let anyone convince you that your existence is unfit; and do not lose a moment's sleep if they do.
Starward