friday, january 9

for the most part,
love is fucking meaningless

wanting to fuck is equally without
although it's at least an either/or
proposition of sorts
or anyway a matter of tangible degrees
are we or aren't we? did we or didn't we?
there are circumstances where you might not remember
and sometimes you don't know what's coming next
but there's a physical fact somewhere in there

mind-altering substances, likewise,
make you ridiculous
it's possible to argue that what
they really do is nullify some
collection of checks and balances
which prevents your true underlying
ridiculosity from emerging
but that assumes some kind
of core selfhood

which is the thing that when
you go looking for it is always
around some bend, under some other
layer, in some corner of your eye
making like a bob dylan biopic title:

don't look back
i'm not there
no direction home.

tags: topics/poem

p1k3 / 2009 / 1 / 9