Daily mourning

Human existence resembles a theater performance which, begun by living actors, is ended by automatons dressed in the same costumes. – Schopenhauer.(*)

The day becomes too long, like
An empty pipe of glass
Not even a hellish orange light
On our horrible crash

The narrow stage, how pathetic and rusty
Snigger and grimace, bow down
Why do you call it big ? It’s old.
Would you see it from there ?
What does a week mean ?
A river in despair ?
A far behind leaning
A point of maintaining ?
A soul that no one touches
A sorrowful thought
And in a winter night
A nutcase on the rock

Now that’s a cock –
tail name. But I won’t make it.
Don’t feel the desire to mock kitsch
No more, said the toy
Spitting some filthy lucre
Let it never be joy.

Animal ? Of tenderness ?
No, it’s not your name.
I wonder how’s the endgame
When there’s no audience left.

———-

(I promised you China and Tibet,
The Sunda Islands, and wonderful
plants with magical powers.
You spare me my lies.
But can I spare myself ?

…)

——-

(*): Houellebecq quoted that line and said it was Schopenhauers, but I am not sure about that.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s