Course of Life



What atrocities of a confessional
Would unstitch the truth from my lips;
That I do not in fact know what I am doing

- “Don’t worry I’m a professional.” -

Persistently paradoxical,
a professionally unprofessional;
never wants to think too hard about anything,
caught in a treacle thought - til one finds nothing but the not-end of an auto-cannibalistic self;
think philosophical fervour, melancholic murmurs
lacrimal lamentation
Obfuscated obsessional

-“Don’t worry, I’m a professional” -

I should however qualify that I am not qualified; I am not qualified.
Please do not be surprised if
I am,
once encountered;
thusly incompetent:
unknown and recalcitrant.

I am here (I suspect)
simply by clerical error
In the broad expanse of the universe,
Kafka’s gleeful in-coffin celebration of his costectomy at my happenstances.
One-in-a-million.
Billion.
And the ruins of Roman Roads all lead home
to me;
more house than home;
more worn brickwork and
drought ridden grass in
the contested patch of front yard,
a house in function;
a 4 walled shell
with tiny little windows and
cavernous rooms

-“don’t worry, I am a professional” -

I am forgetful;
I will walk into a room and I will forget why I am there.
I will struggle to remember why I am still there, still here, why are any of us anywhere.
I have forgotten,
I think,
I have forgotten to be anywhere else, to want to be, to like to be, what is it like to be -
Sometimes I wish I was anywhere else,
anyone else
but here
I have found the solution to my unhappiness and it is so very clear, it’s

-“I know this one, it’s just on the tip of my tongue” -

It’s in the pits of my mental tip,
The wastelands of my mind,
and in with it
are the broken
Remains of the rundown
parts of my brain
and the things I don’t have words for anymore.

-“Please just give me a second because it’s just on the tip of my tongue. Tip. Of. My. Tongue.” -

One of all the things just gone
chewed up or drowned out
by the screaming fan of my
overheating, shuddering, twisting,
halting and grinding,
grandiose,
cognitive machine.

-“I am a machine. I am a professional” -

Refer to the references,
to the people I refer to
disregard the references that refer
to past indiscretions
because things are different now
and different from all the other different things before
Forget about them, don’t think too hard about the gaps in my resume
I am right here right now,
And I am trying to be a participant

-“I am participating, I am a participant. I am a professional”-

And participating transcends
(is transcendent, a merciful hand out of the dark, and divinely agitates)
a concept, catechism
a compact disk caught on the needle
participate. participate. participate.
in the same way a shark sleeps,
a pathologically involved insomniac.
the excitation of the construction of something
as it bends before it breaks
and the moment it happens is
only a thing in unviewable retrospectives;
Slurped down unspooled reels of
the story of my life,
ripping, clawing, tearing
(Those months don’t really matter)

-“I am a professional. Professionals pull it together. I am pulling it together. I am pulling it together.” -

I am an open book
with ragged rough edges,
my cup runneth over,
please pick your poison.
I myself am afflicted with certain
bacchanalian inclinations
pharmakonic passions
and it’s wrung some sins out of me
I’d say,
and my book would read
that I would follow anything that I thought would lead
to the answer
I don’t know the question for.

Pick your poison.
bathe in its promises,
idolise the euphoric ignorance of distraction,
everything in excess
this is a professional philosophy,
a tried and tested procedure that’s best for the immortal spirit.
The immoral spirit.

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