Analysis

'Hey, hey, the world is a funny place

And it's callin' ya names.'

—Men Without Hats

Definition

 

Life
Is a series
Of irrelevances,

Disappointments

And pain
Strung together
With a heartbeat.

 

 

Evil                    

 

Isn't the Devil
Just a God
Who refuses

To help

  No matter

  How much

  You beg?

 

 

It’s Not So Bad

 

The world ends
Every night
When you close
Your eyes.

So what?

 

 

Indirect

 

Sometimes

What we do

Is only

A reaction

To what

We can’t do.

 

  (And often

     What we can’t do

     Is only

        What we do not

             allow ourselves

             to do)

 

 

Is There A Choice?

 

There is so much

Darkness

At the end

Of everything.

 

Is it necessary

To believe

In darkness?

 

 

Work

Until

Your fingers

Wear down

To stubs

 

Until

You lose

Your friends

Your job

Your home

 

Until

You lack

The strength

To raise

Your hands

To raise

Your voice

To help

Another

To comfort

A soul.

 

Only then

Will you have done

All that you can.

 

Anything less

And you have only done

What you were willing to do.

 

Choose

 

What is more

Important:
  Who we are,
  Or what we do?

 

 

Title

 

If this World

Were a book

The title

Would be

The struggle

For permanence

  Amidst

  The persistence

  Of decay.

 

 

The Hand of Man

 

It is humans

And nothing else

Who make the world

Ugly.

 

But for the hand of Man,

Where would be the

Ugliness

In creation?

 

In a bog?

In a slug?

In a pustule?

 

Perhaps.

 

But even if Man

Annihilates

Every bog,

Every slug

And every pustule,

 

   Will the things

   That we put

   In their places

   Be any more

   Beautiful

   Than that

   Which

   We have

   Destroyed?

 

Can we truly

Create

Beauty?

 

How can our feeble hands

Contest the

Grandeur

Of a mountain,

Of a valley,

Of a forest

A millennium old?

 

Perhaps

We make art

In recompense

For the

Ugliness

We breed

 

   By tearing apart

   And scarring

   The face

   Of this

   Mother

   Earth.

 

And our makeup

Of concrete

And steel

Cannot

Conceal

All that 

We’ve

Done.

 

I live

Because

Somewhere

Sometime

Someone

Killed

To survive.

 

  Not a one of us

  Is innocent.

 

 

Surface

 

Beauty of the flesh
Is a canker
That putrifies
The beauty of the soul.

Not always, perhaps.
But often.

 

 

Bridge-builder

 

We take
what should be called
   depravity
and call it
genius
to make ourselves
feel better
   about
   our own
   inadequacy

Revel in
your
genius—
   it's a
   temporary bridge
   over the
   grave

You
Will
   Be
Forgotten

Only one
name
in a
billion
   outlasts
   a
   century

Do you
really think
you can
   win
   that
   Lottery?

Easier
to fuck
   and die
with
the
rest

But i
will
always
lie
separate
   in a
   private,
   forgotten,
   and
   neglected
   cemetery

   Lonely visitor,
I would kiss you
If I could

Curse
These
Dead
Lips

   And
   smile

Because
I love.

 

 

Patronymic

 

There is no such thing

As fathers and sons

 

There is only what was

What is

And what will be.