11
Slippery time, spreading its wings, leaving me to my endeavors, without an audience. But I tell myself, the work is good, and that will come, eventually. If it doesn’t, in this life, then it will, in the next—and if there is no consciousness after this, then I won’t know it, etc.
So I might as well believe it to be true—since, in believing it, the quality of the work improves. As with this life, and the next—in believing there is a life to come, the quality of my life, here, improves.
But, you might say—if you accepted that there is nothing after this, if you stopped lying to yourself, then you might find peace . . . but there is nothing to accept, or deny. I must believe one way or the other—there is no in between, there is no state of being in which we can attest: there both is, and there is not, life after death: so, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Believing two opposing things at the same time is unbearable. Living without a truth, no matter how subjective, is unbearable. Life evolves. It is human nature to ask where we are going, and to want an answer.
Who’s that knocking on my door? A naked
woman, with small breasts, slender, like a young
girl, promising me that, with her, I’m ahead:
she’ll give me whatever I want. Take her tongue,
and make it mine—it’s no small achievement,
to establish, forthwith, a partner in crime
that wants nothing but this testament,
to spend most of my body, and my time,
on her. Her breasts make her tender, like
me, deep down, on the inside, a child at
heart, determined to secure, and use, the mike,
broadcasting what I am to all those that,
like me, live, or lived, in pain. Broadcasting
to those that are complicated, and wise,
innocent, genetically designed to bring
me these assurances—try this size,
and that one, whatever I want, or think
I want—just to prove them right. Better to
like all kinds than live, ever, on the brink
of despair, beholden to a simple screw,
choosing nothing. My love has white skin,
and blue eyes; that is as big, and loud, to
me, as it gets—until some manifold din,
some exception, proves me wrong. You do
what you want, in the end, and you want what
turns you on, however they do it, the means
is irrelevant so long as you get there, but
nothing—no second thoughts—living scenes
that take shape, based on what we believe,
and feel, ultimately, to be true. I look, then
for each particular advantage. I conceive,
after that, and I’m left to those I ken,
working my magic, no reason to be picky
when I can speak, through anyone, to
the divine—and, through no one, I’ll be
damned, in agony, with nothing to do.
So, don’t I pay particular attention
to each and every soul, composed of
bits and pieces that arouse my intention,
minus, if necessary, our undying love?