ForkWord
Poems by Inchiki
indolence pt2
***
why does the human race despise itself?
there is not time to give it the full treatment
even on this empty day
or even to address the opponents of this argument
or why there is argument
why is there argument?
is this the blast furnace of our love
is this the coal face of our passions
is this the mixing of the waters of black and white
is this the fundamental flaw in it all
is this the (smell of cloves)
is this the running out of the ball of string
is this the classic ending symptom
is this the grasping for symbols
is this the appetite for nothing
is this the (sound of a bell)
is this the microphone beside the bed
is this the sun, or an atom
is this the formidable past
is this the more formidable future
is this the ¡ talking
is this the grasping for a purchase
is this the take home bag
is this the laser sight
is this the explanation for what god is
for nonbelievers
is this the essay
is this the prologue
is this the denominator i.e. the bottom half of the fraction
is this the egoist
is this the overture
is this the axion
is this the epilogue
is this the avant-garde part?
is this the realtime
is this the tea break
is this the wind down to lunchtime
is this the lolly
is this the unusual necessary
is this the (very hard to pinpoint what it is)
is this the terrine of the brain
is this the ardent heartfelt expression of what is
is this the last aspect of hymm or mantra
is this the word in a microdot
***
such strange peculiar noises in this room today
a tiny insect fills the air
with the rustle of a leaf
that it is trying to negotiate itself under
i can hear flies out in the garden
birds in distant trees
the clock that is normally silent
is pounding away on the wall
if the fridge came on i would probably have a startle
so i can trace out the subtle
paths of thoughts
normally unnoticed and crushed
by the burdens of work and life
and subject them later
to the fiery eyes of real people
who can judge them as they like
but not harm them
for they are cast down now and immovable
there is a real beauty in an empty room
in an empty sound
made by the slight non-empty components
and the slight sounds
like a wizard
i sit and ponder them all
and i seek rooms more empty
more silent
deep underground
where a drop of water falls every half hour
making a hollow sound that is emptiness exposed
or in another time
floating in space in another body
i marvel at the infinite specks
and know my own thoughts more
intimately that i can now
then it will grow on me
this bliss
and the scratches i hear now
will be symphonies to other ears
and the close silent taps of keys
will unravel the great mystery
though i cannot know it myself
still it will hold true for some other
when the emptiness is nearly complete
then the search will return to this place
and the fantastic mind
will find its own feet
and go out to greet
the plastic space people
who inhabit the great spheres between time and place
