Killing Time

I keenly remember a time

When I was never bored

When there never seemed

To be enough time

When I felt exuberant

When I had loads of interests

When I hated bedtime

When time was my enemy

In an altogether different way

Selected Poetry August 2012

Download my poetry (27 poems) written in 2012 so far here.

Listless Ruminations on Innocence

The nights are so endless

Every activity that pops into my mind

Pointless

But I do them anyway

Shaking my head at the futility

Getting bored with them

Right after I start

Nothing can satisfy me

There is truly no reason to be

But what else is there to do?

Even the beer tastes foul to me

As I slam the bottle down in disgust

Then take yet another gulp

Hoping to shut off my brain

And finally stop thinking for today

Degradation Through Work

“Men generally work too much to be themselves. Work is a curse which man has turned into pleasure. To work for work’s sake, to enjoy a fruitless endeavour, to imagine that you can fulfil yourself through assiduous labour—all that is disgusting and incomprehensible. Permanent and uninterrupted work dulls, trivialises, and depersonalises.

Alone in an Empty Room

I sit alone in an empty room

Just staring at the walls

And I feel the cents slipping away

From my bank account

Along with the seconds

Of my life

I sit alone in an empty room

Just breathing, thinking, existing

But existence doesn’t come cheap

Fear of Sadness

“I actually attack the concept of happiness. I don’t mind people being happy - but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It’s a really odd thing that we’re now seeing people saying “write down 3 things that made you happy today before you go to sleep”, and “cheer up” and “happiness is our birthright” and so on. We’re kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position - it’s rubbish.

Unrelenting Physical Torment

The day began with a dream

In it a man walked in, pistol in hand, laughing

And when he pointed the gun at me

In this moment of terror, I woke up

And instantly regretted it

As excruciating pain wracked my back

Worse than I had ever felt before

And my teeth would clench no harder

I worked my fist into the offending muscle

Trying to stifle a cry of very real pain

But my back refused to let up

And laughed at me

Though I didn’t know backs could laugh

Moving . . . Where?

I know I should be exhilarated

To be moving house

Heading toward salvation

Or at least that’s what they tell me

For a brief spell I was homeless

And I felt like dying in a ditch

Alone and forgotten

Instead bothering friends and family

Asking to stay at their place

Plodding on, not knowing why

Defeated but still alive

And making their lives just a little harder

With my continued, breathing presence

Cursing myself all the while

The Dreadful Longing For Understanding

How tortured I am by my unwanted longing for understanding of my plight. I have come to realise by now that it is next to impossible to find understanding in other humans, separated as I feel from them by an infinite distance, a distance so great it almost seems we are of different species. Why, then, am I still trying? Why do I feel this desperate, burning need for people to understand what I feel, why I feel it, and why I act the way I act? They will only ever understand, I know, if they ever reach the point where they suffer as I do, and since only naïveté, only the absence of knowledge, of awareness, can spare them from eternal torment in life, and I do not wish this upon them. To seek their understanding, therefore, is wishing upon them this eternal sadness and despair that has become an inseparable part of my own being, and thus means contradicting myself. Nevertheless, this need for understanding continues to well up in me, manifesting as an uncontrollable urge, slapping my feeble attempts at reason in the face, showing it who is the undisputed master.

Apocalypse

“How I would love one day to see all people, young and old, sad or happy, men and women, married or not, serious or superficial, leave their homes and their workplaces, relinquish their duties and responsibilities, gather in the streets and refuse to do anything anymore. At that moment, let slaves to senseless work, who have been toiling for future generations under the dire delusion that they contribute to the good of humanity, avenge themselves on the mediocrity of a sterile and insignificant life, on the tremendous waste that never permitted spiritual transfiguration.

Cursed

“Why this curse on some of us who can never feel at ease anywhere, neither in the sun nor out of it, neither with men nor without them? To possess a high degree of consciousness, to be always aware of yourself in relation to the world, to live in the permanent tension of knowledge, means to be lost for life. Knowledge is the plague of life, and consciousness, an open wound in its heart.
Is it not tragic to be man, that perpetually dissatisfied animal suspended between life and death?”
                                                                                        --Emil Cioran

The Temporary Salvation

“There are experiences which one cannot survive, after which one feels that there is no meaning left in anything. Once you have reached the limits of life, having lived to extremity all that is offered of those dangerous borders, the everyday gesture and the usual aspiration lose their seductive charm. If you go on living, you do so only through your capacity for objectification, your ability to free yourself, in writing, from the infinite strain. Creativity is a temporary salvation from the claws of death.”
                                                                                        -- Emil Cioran

Sweet Resignation

Oh, humanity

How you keep trying

How you keep poisoning

The earth; yourselves

Why were you chosen

You and all of your wretchedness

To populate, to dominate

This beautiful oasis

In a desert of galaxies?

Consumed

The fire consumes me

But I am only wax

Helpless to do anything but watch

As I feel my life force slip away

The fire consumes me

And I am the flame

Burning the wick, the wax

Burning it all, uncaring

Good Intentions

If actions springing from good intentions continue to have bad consequences but the doer is blind to this, can the intentions still be defined as 'good'?

Fear

Fear dominates the human race. It is our one true master.

Embrace Me, Night, And Do Not Let Go

Many believe there is no such thing

As resurrection

But I am revived each day

Resurrected from a peaceful slumber;

All I wished for

But each morning my dreams are shattered

As I rise cursing

To face the horrors of life once again

Stand Tall and Die

I see them all begging . . .

The poor suckers

Begging for work

Dressed up oh so nicely

For the job interview

Nervous, afraid . . . willing

Uncomfortable in clothes they never wear

I look at them and ask myself

Why do they do it?

Oh fuck, please tell me why . . .

Why beg to do something that wearies you

Physically, mentally

Even to do something you hate

Just to live?

Silent Companion

There is a man, clad in black

Who follows me around

Wherever I go

He is feared by many

But not by me—not usually

He used to follow me from a distance

Teasing me, staying just out of sight

But now, whenever I turn my head

I see him looking over my shoulder

Always there, a silent companion,

A guardian, I pray

My dear silent companion

Bold and unafraid

I cannot seem to shake him

No matter where I hide or turn

But I want him to stay;

Without him I’m afraid