The Art of Human Suffering

We exist in ennui 

Lost in formulaic riddles and obstructed prose 

The mind becomes a moonless night 

So many thoughts and none that shine 

Reflections of deflections 

Loathing and Loving 

And somewhere in between

Complex simplicity

We’re always wrong but we never see 


We exist in ennui 

Lost in formulaic riddles and obstructed prose 

The mind becomes a moonless night 

So many thoughts and none that shine  


Filtered out and filtered new

On the outside, you can be pretty too

Stagnant and free from form 

Endless trees that bear no fruit 


So, you fought, so you won 

But here we are again and again        

Aimless and listless 

Just around the corner’s edge 

To the cornea's path 


Blind to the smiles 

That cover blind arrogance 

Blind to the self-induced madness 

Suffocating on the illusion of bliss


We’re always wrong but we'll never see

Hanging low, diseased and rotting 

Endless shifts of celebrated nullity

We are the saviors of nothing 


"It's a slow death without reason 

Prolonged by human weakness"


I don't remember when 

We were not divided by incompetance 

So much beauty in this world destroyed

Abused, forgotten and left by the wayside 


I've had hope that the future is brighter

But hope is my cognitive death 

If religion and philosophy can't heal 

Is there anything left?      


We are grasping for a tranquility that rides the cusp of a failing species 

In the mind's eye we see ourselves as heavenly, but in reality we are cosmological fiends  


Burn it all down

Burn it all away

and like Rome we will fall 

and like Rome we will stay 


Poking Around

Do you remember when we would get drunk, and I would feel your naked body

All the parts that I like

And you would be open allwhere and I'd be there

Poking around?


Then in the day I would talk about beautiful things with the people who offered a rip in themselves

Or talk beautifully about things

Or talk about things

Or talk.


And I would walk for awhile and imagine myself wherever I please

Pretending here and there

With honor melting from the world and into me and only me

So when we met again we were strange and new

And it would be time to drink again

So you and I could be open allwhere

And poke around.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There was a time in my early 20s when I was so full and so empty at the same time, living in cold water apartments, sleeping in bathtubs, fucking and pretending, and going to college.  I've lived at sea now for a few years and sex and seduction are more and more becoming distant memories.  This poem is about a strange time when one could be naturalistic without being ineloquent, and heartfelt yet unsentimental, and get away with the grandest prize.  Looking back on it now and writing this, it seems very sad and beautiful and alien and a little evil, and I miss it late at night and early in the morning.

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