[Suzerain of Sheol]

Talk about glass half empty...

This is probably my most cynical poem, written in the throes of anguish at coming to understand Scott Bakker's "semantic apocalypse". I've thankfully recovered since. >_>

Don't think I ever posted this here.


The Fever of Philanthropy

A soul gone missing goes unnoticed,
just another shade in the forest of precision.
A symptomatic wraith of the immaterial impairment.

God damn your eyes.

And here's where they took refuge,
in the wreckage where we used to play our chemical games.
The plastic paradise,
the apocalyptic schoolyard.
An animal's purest love
for those shocking feelings, requited by the ether.
For such vivid imagery.

Hands passing through fire, the realist's nirvana,
just an atheist's consistency,
mere entropy made manifest.

A living martyrdom of exceptional nihilism.

The solitary tribulation, everywhere to be witnessed,
were we not bequeathed a bastard's comprehension.
An impoverished interpretation,
a distorted confession, moments from the vanishing,
distending through the illusory masterpiece.

A maze of simple solidarity,
amazed at serendipity.

Behind the chameleon drapery,
within the fortress of refraction:
a trove of arcane grandeur
dressing up the lonely leper's lonesome home.

And there it is,
the insectile God with its herds of protozoal thralls.
Just a miserable incidence, a narcissist's miracle.
An indignant masquerade.

Around, around, and around,
our flawless circle, spinning just to keep itself spinning.

I am suffocating on self-evidence.