Here I lay in this rumpled bed in the midst of dark unknown like four-hundred million plus little known dots littered across the landscape. My only wish is to not have my final curtain call be despoiled and deemed a failure. For I have burned out it seems like an old light bulb. Something that is inevitable after all considering that humanity is merely a tik and a tok of a swinging arm. One that though seeming tireless must come to a standstill in the end. It is the nature of the universe to give and then take away.
It is safe to speak when there is no one about to hear the different fallacies that one holds onto with dear life. Those things that forgive but never explain. Those things that elucidate but never tempt fate. Yes!, I could have been somebody! But for whom? For that rambling current known as society? Would I be any better off forgotten after my heyday than any other luminary that had been used as a mortal cross to be worshiped for a while and then discarded within a dusty basement. Ah yes, it’s better to lay here amidst the shrouds of tomorrow as they descend from the air so graciously in a billowy chlorine bleached fantasy. One of perfection in clean houses that are a simply matter of a single digit upon a single digit upon the lever of a spray bottle. What else can one hope for? What else can one desire but perfection? Perfection and eternity! However, check with the man upstairs before turning in your over coat ticket to make sure that the proper is doled out in an appropriate fashion.
Believers! What do believe in beyond belief itself? A notion that forms and elite in your imagination. One that you belong to. And perhaps, no one else. A set of preconceived notions? No doubt! Something to act as a bulwark against chaos? Of varied experiences that will surely come to be. How destabilizing to be at the vagaries of other fellow human beings. In the belly of the beast being bustled about. Thinking some how that your diligence and industry is getting you somewhere. When in fact you are the bottom feeder. The dejected class. The group in an affinity that spread like wheat paste is spread thin upon walls papered over with foolish notions. The legacy of the fathers and the sweet harmony of the best wishes of one’s mother all cemented together. All to what end? To what purpose beyond eventual and ultimate futility in a rhythm and rhyme of continued banal fantasy.
A mystery of male and female. The uterus is a house where many times no one is at home. And the fascination of the male seems forever put up to docking at that door. Most time to hear a hollow sound. And to come with the bright idea that his seed alone can fill it. When in reality there are many room storehouse many men’s seed. All to bring out another, possibly, like one’s self. Possibly a male? Or, possibly a female! There is no third party. It is only a delusion of society that can create other genders and try to make them stick. What a worthless useless strange game of let’s see what I can get away with this week! Powerless men seem to want to squeeze and poke and grab. To spread and push and penetrate! But what will they find at the end of the day but a flabbier more fearful sense of themselves. Stalwart, perhaps? Yet ever needy and demanding. “Be careful young man of whom you choose!” For you might get someone as perverse as yourself. And then what? The most immediate mystery of the dual nature of the biped. Who is right and who is wrong? And how can it ever be solved or patched up? That is an ongoing dilemma.