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Out of my mind, out of my mind.
In a box cuddled by the dark,
follow the stream of consciousness,
ride the ark, follow the waves to
wherever the promised land we
shall reside, embark to a place where
hellhounds are meant to bark,
flash my pages into a drainage pipe.
Aging lumps of sentient dust,
I’ve grown too frail and too odd
to analyze the grains of your grime,
to marvel at your form when it rains
and you become mud, I’ve been a
child dancing around the anthill,
toenails inhabiting your filth, you’ve seen the
path I walked…from a plain sight,
the wailings you heard through the
perspective walls, through the words
you heard my bones and joints coil,
cover me with tinfoil, the life I give
words needs to ooze less, I’ve been
sighing out forms, I’ve been creating
Frankensteins through verbal gore,
god or peasant of lore, destroyer of
laws, Friedrich Nietzsche deformed,
Sigmund Freud facing symptoms of
libido loss, meditative rigid thoughts,
dementia stricken moth, feeding on
anything; I’ve entered the seventh
floor where theses are mere expressions
of everyone’s chaos, where you lose
meaning and meaning loses your thoughts,
loosen the screws, bring hammers and nails,
restructuring of the self, lost in a mirage,
voluntary blindness from both the
matrix and the true context, detached
from all, marvel at everyone’s fall,
call the coroner or the caretaker;
we’re everywhere at the end of time,
splattered everywhere, bloody and all,
ideas and thoughts leaking out,
screamers have awakened us.
Sin a scene of seeing other people’s
nakedness, the Godhead searches
for your presence.

When prose or a poem seems lukewarm,
rather difficult to form a thought for,
that is the pathway to a truthful thought,
borrow me a lifespan to rewrite the
words that govern us all, in limbo
marvel at the crimson moonstone, this is the
Kremlin where we contemplate with
Kronos on chaos, crime and time, firey
oblivion enfumed by chime.
We have lost the path, we walk through
corridors of conspiracy and downright
dead philosophies, maybe the world
is good and we’re the brooding grumps
awaiting a false apocalypse, wide open
your lips, no wise sonnets are released,
it’s ranting and shouting, no truth
in all the noise, true truth might
be silence, we have grown mental,
we’re stagnant vegetables, heads
of cabbage claiming your mindsets
are tainted, the emancipation of the
madman, the proclamation of the saviour
being a political puppet perpetuating
propaganda for political elections,
it’s the wrong way we’re taking, it’s now
truth and falsehood violating our
conceptions, it’s doctors claiming
the pharma needs covid corpses
as manure to plant a new world order
authority, it’s the claim of marshal law,
the pandemic is a hoax?
The audacity of most. Now that you’ve
reached my form, now that the craziness
has become your norm, wear a mask
and join the grand scheme of things,
revolutionise your thoughts, turn your
mindsets into intellectual property,
obliged and so desperate to be part of
something more, Che Guevara is your
comrade, so start raiding the system
for the truth and post it on a Facebook page,
become a cute mercenary selling your
divine knowledge to peasant man,
these pheasants, doves waiting to be fed,
eyes glowing, maybe true purpose
poses with a cardboard written some
provocative words, stand for something,
stand for something, highness standing above
the Yosep table; but nothing at all
is understood, while some of us yawn under
the table, they dissect the cosmos
with their fragile intellectual background.

Sleep sound, this oblivion is blissful,
the dead die desperately disputing
their claims of the disease being
a direct dose of divinity, predators
only perish, it’s the Yeshua arrival,
it’s the Q and A, the Questions I
own need no Qanon to queeble
and be a choir caressing my weakness
for an evangelical enjoyment, it’s
a quagmire in this quarantine,
it’s a quif of a false consciousness,
it’s a checkmate, you’ve become
partners with the system, you’ve
been sabotaged, messianic minds,
thoughts fogged with dust, it’s a dark
mist, most are meandering martyrs
waiting to die for a man twisting
fingers on keyboards, the true
tremor begins now as we use
a tumor to think, our existence is futile,
wear your regalia.
What if truth was never meant to
be a trendsetter, what if truth is
never meant to be a revolution,
what if truth is meant to coexist
with a lie and your truth should
stay that way, as truth to you,
let others find it if needs be,
for true truth doesn’t need to be
marketed for…
Blissful Oblivion, let us all dance and
step; left-right cha cha cha,
embrace our oblivion and move to
the sound of the chaos and the
Expressions of Everyone’s Chaos!

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Boris Groh

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

Blissful Oblivion

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