Saturday, November 13, 2021

Hauntingly Vacuous ~ Saturday, November 13, 2021

There sits a beautiful woman, it's in her eyes, a deer caught in headlights

Hauntingly vacuous, statuesque odalisque, aesthetically deranged

Even if something were wrong with this picture, what then could I do to help

Relax Old Mādaras, this is but a wedding reception to enjoy

Enter these reflections with a pinch of sea salt, nothing gained, nothing lost

Socially, I am lost among the relatives of my lovely girlfriend

In this capacity, I feel a handicap, an inability

To float past everyone without a care, burdened by nothing, not even

Stars hammering my head inside out, outside in, what's the point of it all

Ask myself this question as an aged, old man with one foot in the grave

Beauty means nothing now, my infatuation with charming women died

Each year, I ask myself why am I still alive yet, I have no answer

Ask myself the meaning of Le Degré zéro du sens, I am speechless

Under these conditions, I feel trapped, a cheetah unable to stretch out

To take long strides and run after prey to capture deep in the savanna

In the delta region of the Kalahiri, as I imagine it

Fruitless, this life, penned in, so far from Africa, from the Okavango

Under these conditions, I start to go crazy with nothing but my mind

Life should not be like this but I must pay penance for crimes I do not know

Work until death for what, retire in a rest home, bring me my tantō, please

Only honor respects the bloodshed of battle but now, I am but bored

May I go read my book somewhere hidden away from the circus dancers

Ask myself this question, why does the Sphinx bother with this game of riddles

Nothing decimates man more than a conundrum, a date wrapped in bacon

Insist on nothing less, sweet with the savory, this my mid-life crisis

Taste the beauty of love, go down to the bottom and then, come up for air

Success tastes of perfume, fast cars, corner office, penthouse views at sunset

If I knew I would be a failure in this life, I would have sacrificed

Notions of liberty, free to choose as I please, to study what I want

Humanities, a joke, full of bad decisions, tumble down the spiral

Even if I could start over at say age twelve, I was still too fucked up

Remember my background with an alcoholic and a vacuum of sense

Enter a sensitive, artistic-minded child as the harpies swoop down

Yesterday, I woke up after just two hours sleep and the same thing, today

Enter the expressway the wrong way as we crash head-on on the off ramp

Single me out, punish me for doing something that I should not have done

Ask myself what went wrong, what events in my life stand out as past mistakes

Disestablish my mind the sovereignty of thought as primary to sense

Even if I could clear all my previous faults, what would I learn of love

Ever to remedy my broken character with self-love of the soul

Remember the body internalizes thoughts, feelings and emotions

Caught in the web of dreams, within muscle tissue, the trauma embeds eggs

Aspects of the novel, the new character flaws supersede the old ones

Unfortunately, time impedes the blockages emptiness must relieve

Given my past mistakes with my mother, keeper of all morality

Honor bright, I was good until I met brother dear as a young sadist

Terence is not Horace but as a pseudonym, Horace destroyed my world

Insight comes like lightning, a bolt out of the blue, clear skies, no clouds in sight

Never will I trust God to lead me to heaven or hell, this paradise

Headless as a horseman, undead and surviving this ethereal world

Even if I could wake the awoken spirit like the Buddha, himself

Ask myself, why would I save all humanity from their own treachery

Deem morality bunk, a construct, a system for criminal justice

Liquid fluidity, I let go of the past, of family, of trauma

Isometric balance, the equation in sync, chemistry as music

Grant me serenity for the alcoholic and his absent family

Honor bright, overcome the eternal return of the same as trauma

Trick the mind to become better than lost spirits, souls without an object

Still the beauty of truth, a woman, is fleeting, ephemeral as mist

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