Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
Groggy and sleep-deprived, like
a product of an off-label Rembrandt,
or he having ingested too many
unprescribed mushrooms. Day unchained
slithers irrepressibly back towards
the cool, nether cowl of crawling,
unconfined and unconfirmed night.
Little there is left for the likes of me, in my
brown liquid riving and trembling
cocoon existence, dripping slow fluids across
mute seas of carpeting, but to devour
a long swath of sandwich, to strangle
and submerge feeble consciousness within
a tasteless college comedy, and to probably
edit a few more chapters of an old book I'm
striving to revive. We'll be seeing you around.
You know, the title here is the most mystic and spiritually stirring of all. Ah, alienation. One feels fit for so much grandeur, the limbs tingle and crave to cross the whole universe in one giantic leap of faith and yet, and yet- that alien skin. We are confined in such frail bodies and, oh I suppose it was Nietzsche who whispered to the dull ear of humanity that man is a weak animal whose survival relies entirely on intellect. That intellect is an alien in an aging, weakening, skinny, bony, disgustingly physical body. But ah, such passions as come with that weak frame- the sensual joys- cannot be denied for all the contemptible downsides.
ReplyDeleteI love how you made the picture spiral- it reminded me instantly of spiraling galaxies.