#Philosophistication

Ah…cold sunrise, hungover after
staring at the bottom of beer
bottles and hazing toward crumbling walls.

It’s a beautiful sight when we grow old,
a saddening reality when one is born,
walk a path to a destiny unknown, just
to lie in an empty closed box.

Pause for breath, marvel at the calamity
of death, we’re pests parading in someone’s
house, poets lying about the sweet
scenes of life, sins are signs.

Kiss a child’s palm, taste the innocence,
the peace, the enchantment, the
need for adventure in this hell hole,
soon to marvel at the sight of strip poles.

Fill me whole with love when hate is
what I love, shut me in your bruised
palm, let me see the wounds, the
solitude, the raw and nude emotions
oozing out.

Hold a hand, guide someone else, I’m already
in sight of my destiny, ah, I have
abandoned my sanity…now it’s a bastard,
now I walk with a prodigal mentality,
the product of what you suggested I
should be.

Maybe I follow the path of an old drunkard,
marvel in existentialism while I taste
and try to understand the sweetness of
ciders, follow awayness from me,
I am the scarecrow, you’re the crows
I am to scare.

Hold my hand, remind me of why I
should befriend a mortal man,
be friends with those who die in
a soon yesterday, so yes, follow me
in dread.

Crumble my bread, call the pigeons,
whistle at the bartender before the
night sleeps, call out to your loneliness
and see your psychosis in flesh.

Drenched in mortal pain, where rain
grants us bliss in the midst of darkness
and hopelessness, consciousness makes
us weep, let us flee, dream of a far away
land where pain is not known.

Elevate to the heavens with a harpoon,
be sentients and conversate and be
in communion with holy wild baboons,
when it all fades away, the beauty and
simplicity is hidden in the facades of cartoons.

Parachute me to a ground from my
heavenly cosmos, remind me that I’m
a man when I feel like I’m equivalent
to the glory of a black hole. Remind
us that industrialization does not mean
we have evolved, maybe we’ve been
dethroned from the thrones of the ancients.

Dream more, sleep less, the eye should
not see what is to be manifested from
the mind, revise what you consider as
a beautiful mentality.

Now this is it, isn’t it? Our conspiracial
ending, our long awaited silence of
an EKG, the fight was never fought,
the arena was disguised and redescribed
by a college student with a useless degree.

The false beauty that we fathom, the
false meaning that we hold onto,
mutilated and left to be fed on and
pissed on by fleas, yes, I say it, this is
it, if not then we’re to die within,
morales are tarnished, married to
cynics.

Hold your dear infant from this crumbling
world, the burning veld where trunks crack,
where knives tear guts and ravage
through the muscular tissues, where we
misuse laws to justify who we want
to be, this is it, the long awaited end,
the ending, the credits follow after this,
at long end the director is revealed.

Hold me dear beautiful mother before I follow
you into your decease, Dante’s inferno
is wide open, Hades’ and the wallowing
sunrise star fork our souls hiding
underneath the dust. Miss me.

As tears are trickling, as your lover holds
your tit and keeps caressing, as his clutches
milk you of your mortality, as the light
fades from your eye, this is the reality
we live by, the ending that is artistic
enough to make us marvel statements;
it’s a great time to be alive, or a great
day to die.

Fish me from the ocean of existence,
maybe I need to feel more alive, above
everything else, to feel I would never
live only to die, defeat my mind with
a simple smile, defeat death with me
as I grow through my years of adventure,
where I watch and pity my age group
finding happiness in meaningless lives.

I am drunk, drinking ink from barrels,
thinking of the poems I would’ve written
without my adrenaline tainting my
thoughts, it’s all a manipulation of font
while the mind drowns underneath the
calmness of a writer’s intents.

Scathed by the scenes I come by,
the stories and news I watch while
sitting on my brother’s single bed,
frail I grow into death in my wake,
what makes us believe we once lived,
once grew into what and who we are and
wanted to be.

Maybe in words I lose a soul or
it mutates into something more, either
read or not read, I care no more,
I write for something less or something more…

Nothing else fills.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Vladimir Zimakov

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