“The person lives most beautifully who does not reflect upon existence” - Nietzsche

A stab at some bland and bitter open poetry.



Being a writer and a thinker is nothing more than farce,
Empty, lazy bastards with time and hell else,
Influenced by Lady B, and Lady P.
Before pay-day they lie at their remote
Surrounded by tissues and handcream,
A pile of peeled-off Beer labels,
And wish for an idea, pray for an idea,
Even though they're kept in house
By blaming religion for our troubles,
And scorning the faithful with
Drunken, blundering blows,
An attempt at Oxford Logic.
But you think that you're different,
Oh, young man. With an Underwood
And a love of the world,
And open contempt for those bitter old
bastards and their hypocritical prayers,
You think you'll be the new darling,
Hemingway with soul,
Bukowski with direction,
But months drag on,
And you've been at the magic goon,
And one night,
Because you don't know what to do
You put your head down and get on your knees,
And you tell yourself that you're doing it
'For Art'
And that you're trying all the ways of life,
So you can truly be the master of
'Writing From Experience'
But you know you're doing it because
The beer is running out faster than the money,
And you're afraid.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Not that there's anything wrong with that.

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