Not everyone, nor in the furthest of chances, I
Would appreciate, how it was possible, to ever
Regret everything
But I do
I am real
And I've messed everything up
This poverty of mind
Body, and complete lack of riches
I had never foreseen
My peers bathe in plentitude
And I've even given up on envy
Now I merely scream into pillows
Hope isn't my alibi
For I relinquished it long ago
I reside among many absurdities
Wanting to crush my life like a crumpled sheet of paper
And throwing it into the infinity of space
I think of ending things
But still continue to be
Because the logistics of death aren't for me yet
Happy 33 to me
3 comments:
I have never felt any poverty of mind in your writings, but I understand how one can feel so about themselves.
Happy 33 - in greek we say "Hope dies last." If you need someone to read or listen, you can reach out. (I mean feel free to do so.)
Despondent? Or surprisingly hopeful? I am torn between what it is, this piece. Happy 33! :)
Your opening lines triggered something I had read from Samuel Beckett (which I often relate to, too):
"Personally of course I regret everything. Not a word, not a deed, not a thought, not a need, not a grief, not a joy, not a girl, not a boy, not a doubt, not a trust, not a scorn, not a lust, not a hope, not a fear, not a smile, not a tear, not a name, not a face, no time, no place, that I do not regret, exceedingly. An ordure, from beginning to end. And yet, when I sat for Fellowship, but for the boil on my bottom . . . The rest, an ordure. The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps. And the poor old lousy old earth, my earth and my father's and my mother's and my father's father's and my mother's mother's and my father's mother's and my mother's father's and my father's mother's father's and my mother's father's mother's and my father's mother's mother's and my mother's father's' father's and my father's father's mother's and my mother's mother's father's and my father's father's father's and my mother's mother's mother's and other people's fathers' and mothers' and fathers' fathers' and mothers' mothers' and fathers' mothers' and mothers' fathers' and fathers' mothers' fathers' and mothers' fathers' mothers' and fathers' mothers' mothers' and mothers' fathers' fathers' and fathers' fathers' mothers' and mothers' mothers' fathers' and fathers' fathers' fathers' and mothers' mothers' mothers'. An excrement. The crocuses and the larch turning green every year a week before the others and the pastures red with uneaten sheep's placentas and the long summer days and the newmown hay and the wood-pigeon in the morning and the cuckoo in the afternoon and the corncrake in the evening and the wasps in the jam and the smell of the gorse and the look of the gorse and the apples falling and the children walking in the dead leaves and the larch turning brown a week before the others and the chestnuts falling and the howling winds and the sea breaking over the pier and the first fires and the hooves on the road and the consumptive postman whistling The Roses Are Blooming in Picardy and the standard oillamp and of course the snow and to be sure the sleet and bless your heart the slush and every fourth year the February débâcle and the endless April showers and the crocuses and then the whole bloody business starting all over again. And if I could begin it all over again, knowing what I know now, the result would be the same. And if I could begin again a third time, knowing what I would know then, the result would be the same. And if I could begin it all over again a hundred times, knowing each time a little more than the time before, the result would always be the same, and the hundredth life as the first, and the hundred lives as one. A cat’s flux. But at this rate we shall be here all night."
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
Happy 33rd. Though 50s seem to have become the new 30s, or so I was told by someone (who's a regular on netflix) a few months ago when it was my 33rd and I felt something similar.
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