pointlessness

Balloons Over Nebula

Fleshy gates were swinging closed
to stop me as I tore through sheets
of spangled silver, framed in black,
that held these two balloons to ground.
Hands have strength that's bound to serve
and serves so well to free the swells
that lift me far beyond my pitch
where those who dwell below can't hear.
Fingers dig and teeth were sunk
into the hide to switch the drift
to something more aloft, at least
'til I've risen past the shallows.
The blue gives gradual way to none,
contrasted by these distant stars
that may have died or been a lie
but cannot be identified.
The ceiling which was never there
could save me as I'm taken far
beyond the scope of navigation,
above this nebula of truths.
And when I view its swirling face,
tortured by its beauty postured,
I'll entertain the ledge I hold,
wishing it would catch me, should I fall.

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The Idle Merchant

Bathed in the flexing air of the mid-afternoon's heat,
a merchant plodded forward beneath the bulging of his wares.
He struggled with his footing and knew only gravel here;
not quite roads, nor paths - hardly a place fit for man,
even one such as he, who'd seen so many things, and been
so many places. There were no beasts for carried burdens,
no grunts to pave his waywardness and
no government for bumbling or posting of the signs.
And lo, this poor man's trader had no value for those so few
who'd seen his candor, pulling forward, crossing desert strands.
He'd only found and peddled thus these trinkets, worn and 'bused,
that called upon their darkest thoughts and turned them inward, soundless.
Politely they, with softest tone, deny his offered purchase -
subjected to, as departed, his deepening despair.
He thins as he's embroiled in the innards of the landscape;
dripping sweat and leaking blood with every flicking pebble thrown.
With no curses for the terrain on tongue, he goes,
searching for the customers he so desperately desires,
subsisting on the cast offs of the buzzards dwelt above.
He dreams of stretches, level ground, that do not harm his toes,
but continues on, through pointlessness,
as pointlessness is all he's ever known.

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Words Like Cake (No Good for No One)

What worth are the words of a fat, rolling ball
made out of ennui, disgracing himself,
hating himself and dreading the years
that make up a life that's full of the same.
May they be pretty - say it's the case,
made kind of ugly by slick of the grease,
the green of the tea that he still isn't drinking,
the salt of the sea that he's grown up to fear.
Why is he speaking? Heaving on screen?
Phrases made pointless, like the life that he's leading,
with poignancy lauded on the shoulders of woe
which tends to be truest; the one thing he knows.

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Ripshit

About a man that is centered inside a smoking bubble,
with view obscured and his thoughts expansive and loose.
He does very little breathing at all, and instead
he chews on the walls of his cage to rid his mouth of taste.
The bubble has a door, but he doesn't care to reach
and intrude upon the people that often stand outside.
Instead he learns about pointless things and people
and ignores the ignoring that seems like it's everywhere,
all the time, no matter how long he waits in bed.

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Obligate Me

Gravity is sick of me -
I feel a sudden lift.
In spite of it I scan the crowds,
the skies, the winding valleys:
there is nothing to be found.
So I continue upwards.
The air begins to thin,
the clouds all dip to bathe me,
and every star will shimmer.
There is no God to greet.
Below my feet will dangle,
above the darks enclose,
and all the while I contemplate
how someone here could obligate
me to touch the ground.
Drowning in our pointlessness,
sterilized and wound
about the rims of feeble pikes,
laid to bed my narrows,
now risen as my arms.
As the void envelopes me,
as the cold devours;
I'll speak aloud to no one.
My words will have no meaning,
and they will make no sound.

My Grandmother

My grandmother is dying,
I can see it in her eyes.
Or, rather, her one eye;
The cancer took the other one
And it is now red and puffy
Like some kind of Atacama on her face.

And she is dying, as life thrives
Within her, in cancer cells that
Enjoy a life eternal,
Purely in the theoretical,
And multiply
Like there ain’t no tomorrow.

And so they host a party in her bones,
And make them crack and swell.

She loses her memory
And asks me if I’ve ever read
Baudelaire. I say no,
I’ve only studied Maupassant.

And asks me if I’ve ever read
Baudelaire. I say no,
I’ve only studied Maupassant.

I feel irritation at her,
And just how wrong is that?
I wonder if she feels
She’s made an impact in her life,
And whether it was all worthwhile,
And if she can bite off the universe
In a smile
And not feel inadequate.

And asks me if I’ve ever read
Baudelaire. I say no,
I’ve only studied Maupassant.

And no,
I just don’t know,
I just don’t know what to say.
This is probably
The last time I’ll ever see her.

And asks me if I’ve ever read
Baudelaire. I say no,
I’ve only studied Maupassant.

And all she can engage with is
Meaningless chat.
The state of the Seychelles,
Or what she did so long ago.
She doesn’t like Ramkalawan,
Apparently,
Nor Michel nor Mancham nor any
Of these banana politicians.

And asks me if I’ve ever read
Baudelaire. I say no,
I’ve only studied Maupassant.

And do I care?
And would I want to put
A bullet through my brain
Before it came to this?

And I just don’t know what to say.
I just do not know what to say.

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