1
Things and people arise
Amongst us. And both are stark,
and both are hard on the eyes.
Itās best to live in the dark.
From a park bench, I spy
a family walking in-stride,
that quickly passes me by.
I am repulsed by light.
Itās January. Calendars mark
winter time. It is bleak.
Once Iām fed up with the dark,
I will begin to speak.
2
Itās time. Iām poised to begin.
It matters not where. Lips part.
I could as well keep it in.
Perhaps itās better I start.
Of what? Of nights. Of days.
Or ā nothing of any kind.
Or, maybe, of things. To raise
things and to leave behind
people. None of whom will remain.
And I will die with them all.
This labor would be in vain.
A writing upon windās wall.
3
The blood in my veins is cold.
Its chill is more feral than
a river iced to its core.
Iām not very fond of man.
I donāt like their look. I shun
all people. Faces appear
to graft onto life an un-
ending, horrid veneer.
Something I find in them all
encloses my mind in gloom.
Something that tries to cajole
God only knows whom.
4
Things are nicer. Theyāre not
made out of evil or good
outwardly. And if you prod
into them ā at their root.
Inside of all things ā is dust.
Wood-borer beetles and
brittle mosquito grubs.
Uncomfortable to the hand.
Dust. Flick on the light,
and only dust is revealed.
Even if, to our sight,
things are hermetically sealed.
Soā¦ I do not like something unrelated to gear. Erich Fromm called people like me ānecrophilous personalitiesā (sry for my horible english)