Mist

In a life where staying still

is not an option,

we are all ephemera.

 

To laugh at oneself

is the key to life.

 

Laugh…

…at the absurdity of your plans…

…at the opinions which you hold tighter

than a soldier would a gun in battle…

…at your serious face, as it does that

mask thing…

…at your glittering career, whose trajectory

no one but you is interested in, or even aware of.

 

Have you ever laughed (or cringed)!

at the embarrassment of old photos?

   But you are an old photo now

   (it’s just that the time has not yet passed).

Let’s Not Play This Game

We give substance to things which are empty:

New this! New that! And, worst of all:

sanctimonious political theories

and beliefs.

 

A stupid game,

and one which we don’t even know

we’re playing,

having fooled ourselves

with idiotic pictures of reality.

 

Who gets your vote?

The man who provides a way

out of this suffering.

 

Such a man has not been born.

‘…and the canaries sang no more…’ [Charles Bukowski]

Perhaps their silence is a good thing,

if Ogden Nash is to be believed,

for who of us could appreciate

an unvaried song?

 

Our songs never change, either:

blaming others; shaming ourselves.

 

To paraphrase the Priest Mansei:

our unspectacular existence

is no more solid than

 

the vapour trail I saw just now,

vanishing across the lonely sky,

the only reason I could think of for its blueness.

God put you on this Earth

to point out other people’s flaws;

to stand in jeering, frenzied condemnation

of others, and their dreadful deeds and thoughts.

 

Not you, though, for you are perfect

perfection, flawless in every way

(save the ones you choose to ignore… what’s that?).

 

The edifying spectacle of the mob:

we see it more and more each year,

addicted to their shop-soiled platitudes

 

scribbled on signs and thrust towards the camera’s eye.

Don’t watch the news, don’t read the papers,

and disconnect yourself from all technologies.

 

We all belong in the gutter,

unaware of the miracle of

our own stupidity,

 

Incoming

Face the shoreline,

for the incoming tide

is bound to reach you

when your back is turned.

And what shall you do then

but panic at the prospect of the waves?

My footsteps will be washed away,

you think, all sadness and self-pity,

while terror grips you by the feet

as if planting you in the sand

like a skin-covered accident

waiting to happen.

Too late, you think,

as the wave collapses

leaving particles in its wake.

No, not too late,

but on time

as it is every time.