30 Jun 2011

austerity for lucidity?

austerity measures
oh yeah, what else?
case in point
pointless poetry

i haven't been this dry in some time
incidentally, in the thick of quitting caffeine and zoloft
there's too many variables, i can't tell what is affecting what
and every attempt at describing that is
this scraping the bottom of the mediocrity barrel
getting to hear about better men, themselves better than the ones
who are better than me

no, i don't think something to fight for in itself is worth newsreel nightmare suffering
but i don't think this is worth much either
of course suicide correlates to this and that
and of course i know
that newsreel nightmare suffering would shake the malaise out of me
and shock me into savouring my daily ration of goat's eyeball
my best part of the day, so i could endure a fake scare real scare
every twenty seconds and sleep on barbed wire to survive, cause i rolled a six
and they rolled a ten, and it all came to a pulitzer-prize winning graphic novel
based on me and my son, our claims to fame and value as people intertwined with a work of art
cause art matters, like it's purpose, or i thought it did, seemed to, or was that a dream?
the best part of waking up - no, can't incorporate folgier's jingle into this mexican jumping bean cutup of crappy laptop keyboard

had some hope that there was a state of purity that would correlate with happy
that i was paving over with the SSRI, that was waiting for me, if i'd just clean out my system
so i'm cleaning, but of course, i'm re-using filthy rags in a misguided attempt to recycle, and everything i clean
just gets smeared with new grime
maybe clean's the wrong concept, well sure, why wouldn't it be wrong?
maybe all i can say is, i'm getting closer to baseline
but all i feel is a void, a hazey nothing, no clarity either, no lucidity
not that my mind was working much better in an overmedicated whirl of concentric cycles
but maybe a little better, at least for functioning as a decadent wastrel, that was not an aspiration, but it was inspiring while sufficiently wired - a coffee-cream combo sort of thing

and what can i say about family? i should say something - something nice to start off with, some buttered bread for a compliment sandwich - cause there's so many things i could say - but i don't want to say anything


chels said...

wow, yeah. it certainly does seem we're riding the same sort of wavelength.

art matters, you tell yourself. but you can't make your art matter to you if it's not in the same sort of space. writing really does feel like the last resort, doesn't it? and i've even been avoiding that lately, because i can't make it matter either, in some form other than sloughing off the dead layers and sick foam of the ol' internal monologue.

ta for the comment, i'm returning the favor and wishing you well, as a measure of solidarity. us humdrum bums have to stick together, is what.

Hector the Crow said...

sick foam, you got dat right