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.


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