Assorted thoughts to be read aloud

We waffle along the same way we did millions of years ago when sentience didn’t exist, when we were between the cracks, beneath the ice, suckling at the nipple every time it got hard in the chill of solitude. We are still completely oblivious of our under dwelling nature, prancing about as if we are the inhabitants of everything resembling a surface. What does it mean to stand on something? Do we even know? Haven’t we disregarded our own mass or the light of galaxies? The mountains do not grow to meet our feet, they grow to the sky. Kings we say, and instinctively burrow a little deeper to lay our dead. Get rid of them, they’re stinking up the place. The dead deserve more than the living for they have suffered a lifetime and we have not. The dead belong atop the mountains and we place them beneath our feet.



I’m disgusted with my words. I spit on them in detest. I’m envious of the greats like Ginsberg, Whitman, Pope, so I stopped my attempt at verse for this. I am dribbling along the page and feel better about it because my pen flows easy across the lines. It’s something that the meter can’t measure. Truth.



I know what I wanted to say before when I wrote my quatrain. Death comes quietly every night when we close our eyes to the world, to rest, to sleep away the loneliness of life, to mark a day gone by whether grand or grim. And there aren’t any flowers to mark the occasion. No tears. No mortician holding out his filthy hand that built a room to lay a lifeless body in. When did death become a commodity? It’s those ######6 Egyptians who started it all with their pyramids, spending a lifetime planning their own demise and using slave labor to harbor their vanity.



Anything would make more sense than this reality.



I feel like every creative edge I have or had has just flown out of my body. Maybe it’s because I am wasting away. Maybe I never had it to begin with. I’m more afraid now of losing whatever it is I had than I am of going insane. I think I have reached a point where my insanity has become a necessary part of my personality. I need that edge. I need to hold on to my obsessions. I feel betrayed by those who would see me become a normal productive member of society. I think I would rather die. Maybe that’s a good thing to feel that way. I think all great artists cling to madness. Be it as it may I would need to go way off the deep end to become remotely close to the writers I do so love with such intensity.



What I wouldn’t give to have this foresight twenty years ago. What I wouldn’t give to be young right now with a beautiful woman lying next to me, naked, giving herself to me with all her delicate parts, her soft touch, the small of her back glistening under the light. She is everything that a man could never be. I need that beauty. I have to have it! If ever there was a time it is now, especially now, when my pen cannot find its place amidst poetic verse.



The young have no idea how fortunate they are. It’s sad that they won’t be able to appreciate the splendor of youth until it is gone. Some think they can, but they really can’t. If I thought I could start over again by dying I surely would not hesitate. This life has been wasted on clinging to lost time. I do not have the zealous nature of those who stand beside me in the circle of creative energy. If I can’t find another reason to write other than the possibility that anything is possible than I am doomed to failure. I am lost forever because I no longer believe in the nature of possibility. It is a sad realization when you give up on the idea of eternity. The young know they are mortal as I do, but they know they are young too. Death is still just a small point of darkness, an obscure barely visible void in a long hall of light. That point of darkness for me is pulling harder and harder. I know its purpose. It is here to swallow us all. It is the nothing on our side of the universe, and where it leads once it has ripped us to pieces will remain a mystery until we have reached the other side. From there only the dead will know. But do the dead ever really get to see anything? Their eyes dilated sucking in the light of the world and never letting it escape, never processing the beauty of it all. The eyes of the dead can only devour what is there. The eyes are obsidian, destroying creation, warping time to unrecognizable remnants of hope and torn dreams, reality forever incomplete. Lost! All lost, all forgotten. Its return is the epitome of what it means to be impossible.



You have your gods. I have something much more powerful and prophetic. I have the edge of reason, and the line that I will cross that leads me to the unimaginable. Nothingness will never come close to defining it. Nothing will, ever!