Being or Somethingness
How is it that when we shrivel up to nothing,
We yet retain a semblance of being or somethingness?
I can't say.
I'm not wizened, wrinkled, desiccated, prunish enough,
Have not even reached the tender age of seventy;
My ninety-five-year-old mother still calls me her "baby."
But I digress ever so slightly —
I guess that's what you call it
When all you can say, speculate, ejaculate, is "I can't say."
Perhaps it has to do with aging, decaying,
With the be-all-and-end-all enigma of degradation,
When the psyche's lights flicker but don't go dark,
Just dim to a perpetual twilight filled with screeching bats —
Phantom aberrations and anomalies with red eyes,
Wings that flutter, like scythes, through withered grass.
Again, I digress, this time into useless gratuitousness.
So, now, let me ask, "What the fuck do we have
When we shrivel up to bat guano?" "Nothing but pure shit."
04/03/10 - (4)
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