Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Prolific, yes; but why?

It's all well and good to say that I have a fractured personality incapable of maintaining an overarching meta-narrative. But it saves nothing. Sovlves nothing. Serves nothing. Fuck, it means nothing. And yet, I say it regardless. Because if I dont keep talking, writing, however meaningless, I fear that I will mean nothing. That I will amount to nothing. Fuck, but this is all I've got left.

I am a barbarian.

There is so much to say; so much that has been said before. I am the greatest, most unoriginal bastard. And that is nothing. Ever more and more nothing. I fear I will be overcome by meaningless, useless bullshit. That not only will I achieve nothing and waste my life completely, but that I will do it in the most shameful way possible by trying to pass of as art the shit that I produce so mindlessly. I am indeed my worst enemy. It is a cripling fear. And so I write whatever I can, so much so, that hopefully, somewhere amongst all the nonsense there will be something; at least one something of value. There is just so much crap out there and I don't know that I will ever be able to convince myself that I am not simply adding to the pile. "There is no way of knowing," the immortal sea captain William Wonka once yelled at the sargasso sea (but he was half mad and not nearly a pirate).

DOUBT. There is nothing new under the sun.

and now for a bad poem


Life takes off and I stay behind
I didn’t want their fast track
Fast money
Fast life
No joy
Viper called
Below the hard deck
No points for maverick and goose
Another one for iceman

Make a million
Why not?
Find love along the way
A happy ending in 30 minutes
No problems
It's fake anyway
Power bomb
2 count
pile driver
off the top rope
it’s over
a new champion

of nothing
nothing to show
for all that I gave
all that I bled
all that I lost
all that I left behind made up or lied about

and bad punctuation to boot
damn internet generation
you are giving me bad habits
what will I ever do?
Like always
Like I always do

There was never anything else anyway
trips to the grocery store
trips to the mall
a paycheck that is always to small
if the paycheck comes at all

gloriously unemployed
“I hear that he’s a writer”
“he just says that
he’s really just a bum”
“wasting all his parents’ good money”

a parasite
but I have nothing left to do
and I’m so good at it
at nothing
so good at nothing
so good for nothing
always nothing
we always come back to nothing
“with nothing you came into the world
and with nothing you shall leave”

life lessons learned not learning anything

I’ll sell it all to you for 50 cents and a bottle of cheap booze.

everyone loves a bad poem. especially a bad poem about the "troubles of youth" and angst and all of that. look, it even makes fun of the fact that it pointlessly disobeys the punctuation rules of the english language (as if that makes it acceptable). and how many tom cruise references is one poem allowed? is even one acceptable? at least it entertains no delusions of its grandeur. wouldn't score to highly on the prichard scale, i imagine. You know, I am entertaining this juvenile bullshit too long by half.

At least it should be comforting to know that I haven't lost my sense of humor.

"If all my heroes are fictional, what do I want with 'real' life?"
- Isaac Aronson, 3 in the Gutter: Collected Sayings

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