I can’t teach you shit.
Maybe I should pretend I am a poet.
At what point
do you give up on a Dream?
say ‘Fuck it’ and
And then go back
to your shitty job knowing-
that it isn’t temporary
Is there nothing more to it than just going on; maintaining for the sake of not giving up? Is that it? Is that fucking it? What a goddamn waste.
Man in the Dark Suit: But I don’t know what to do…
Billy Prophet: About what?
Man in the Dark Suit: About life about what.
Billy Prophet: Oh.
Man in the Dark Suit: Oh? That’s all you can say?
Billy Prophet: I suppose I could say more.
Man in the Dark Suit: … And?
Billy Prophet: Well, nothing’s coming to me.
Man in the Dark Suit: Oh, fuck it.
Billy Prophet: Ok.
Man in the Dark Suit: Yeah. Fuck it. I mean, what’s the point of it all anyway?
Billy Prophet: The point?
Man in the Dark Suit: Yeah. The point of it all.
Billy Prophet: I didn’t think there was a point.
Man in the Dark Suit: No point? But then what?
Billy Prophet: … But then what what?
Man in the Dark Suit: If there is no point, then what’s the point?
Billy Prophet: … ? … Didn’t I just answer that?
It was nice to have someone to talk to. Now I understand why people would talk to wrong numbers. Human contact. We get little enough as it is. What with being hermetically sealed in our own little lives. Worthless, but we’re not telling. And then? Unfortunately that’s were we get off. There is no and then. Just loneliness and desperation. But I still won’t answer the phone.
Her: Live like you mean it.
Me: That’s good advice. But…
Her: But nothing. Just do it. Live every moment as if it really really matters.
Me: Yeah, except that I don’t mean it. The moments don’t matter.
Me: I don’t mean it. This is all accidental. And someone else’s fault…
Her: Well that’s depressing.
(Not really, I thought, but there’s no way for me to convince her of that. Great, now I have another bleeding-heart bitch worrying about my pathetic ass.)
I have never really hated anyone. I wonder if I am missing out. I wonder if I should buy some new pants.
If only I had a cause to fight I might have some more passion to behind all of this. But that is the thing: I don’t have a cause and that is why I fight. I fight because it’s that or sit in front of the TV and die slowly with each passing commercial. And I am too young to die. And I am too good to die that way. It’s just that it’s so much harder this way. Finding a path where there is no road, where no one has gone before. In relentless pursuit of an end to the boredom.
“but one can never be sure whether it’s good poetry or bad acid”
from “my groupie,” Charles Bukowski