Lugubrious

Standard

Never write out of anger, or else you’ll miss the point of the event.

A load heavy on my chest; my heart feels as if a heavy iPod is weighing it down.

I’m eating a cucumber which looks like a stunned cock, the way cocks look like moments after ejaculation, the infamous refractory period which highlights the dissatisfaction and low standard of any sexual act.

A husband snores. His snores rumble and accordingly a wife’s vaginal lips vibrate, but she says she doesn’t like it, except on those special days on which a spark runs through her frail thin body like lightning and the snoring becomes her thunder; the tempest then needs to be complete, and in the subsequent silence of thunder, comes viscous rain. And soon, varicose veins.

The mercurial nature of all women depends on what they cannot control: corporeal astrology.

A son, in despair because he has never gotten any proper love; he failed school and now he is failing all that is left to fail, including the banal skill of buoyancy. According to the utilitarian nature of society, he is of minimal use; show him hell for being an overall waste.

My knees twitch as I repeatedly move my bended legs up and down as if playing with a baby upon my lap. I know people who like to be rubbed this way. But I am anxious. And yes I am bothered and I cannot see clearly what lies ahead of me. The word “head” haunts me with its acephalic signification. Give me some head. A|head. If anything, of no use is what I strive to be, free from the profanity of servile work. Paranoid and paralyzed, who does not yearn for that moment when all the senses are immersed in a unique unison, but so long as I am of use, all my activity is invested in a wicked cycle of production and minimal consumption.

But I am patient. There is a way out and a way forward.

A little baby walks and totters and smiles. It wears diapers and shits and pisses at will and it looks at its big toe in disgust; the baby realizes that because it has this big toe, it will forever be striving towards a complete erection. Who is not so horrified by the all-too-human foot? The baby is right to run away from the flip-flop wearing cock-sucking alien subject it sees in front of its bent body.

I am a patient in this asylum in which people choose far away sources of distraction and satisfaction so as not to be hurt. I am part of the masses of people who cloister themselves in the shell of hyper-individual technology, slowly becoming a generation of schizophrenics and split personalities. Afraid to be out there, we live virtually, thinking that a profile on a social network would evade death in its most gruesome forms. Sign up and become formless. Contribute to the rotting of the sun. Philosophy is the victim of the formless bits and nats and bans and qubits. The mathematical real transpires. Consciousness becomes nothing but a formula and I can feel what it is like to be you. I become you by a mere adjustment of numbers.

But never erect, the baby grows with a hunchback, without grace, and a big toe, a stigma soon to be commonly accepted. I play with the baby on my lap. I see it bounce on my lap and it looks at me with demonic unlevelled eyes, black teeth and ragged skin, all of which are the signs of 21st century utility.

I am patient. I know of a poet, a poet who still weeps.

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