Categories
Poetry

A very old poem

Ten years ago, someone who I knew from a web forum I used to frequent posted this on Facebook, noting that I had written it. It popped up on my “Facebook Memories” timeline today. My own comment on the Facebook post indicated that I’d written it “a long time ago,” so it’s more than 10 years old, though I can’t say with any certainty how much older it is.

It’s not my finest work, and I wouldn’t write like this today, but it’s not half bad considering I may have been as young as 17 when I wrote this. I have a faint memory of performing this publicly, so it’s more likely that I wrote it sometime in my early to mid-twenties, but I honestly can’t say for sure exactly when it was written.

Anyway, I mentioned this on Mastodon and someone asked me to share it, so here it is. There was no title posted with it, so I’m assuming I never titled it.


Finding myself
on a line between fantasy,
and reality;
a line between superpowers,
and Tupperware;
a line between changing the world,
and changing a diaper;
a line between punk rock,
and EZ Rock;
that I don’t want to cross,
because,
if I cross,
that’ll be the end.
If I cross the line,
if I give up the dreams,
the comic book fantasies,
the goddamned god complex,
then it’ll be over. I’ll be
over.

On the cusp of something great,
but unable to see
that thing that I’m looking for.
Blind, so I’m looking
at the aluminium desk,
the suit and tie,
the stack of papers,
and the endless emailing of reports,
and I’m seeing it as the next step.
Instead of revolution,
I see Whoppers dripping
burger juices onto last month’s numbers.
And, instead of fearing
the dumbing-down of the human race,
I’m actually upset
that the numbers might be ruined.
I’m actually upset
that I might have to rewrite this report
that no one is going to read.

Teetering on the edge of a cliff,
where the danger is real,
because if I fall off,
life will lose that thrill.
The pure joy of just living will be gone.
In place of life,
I’ll put rollercoasters.
My sex life will become
pornographic—
not in the sense of being great,
but in the sense of being
fake;
artificial;
fucking for the sake of fucking,
and nothing more.
No love,
no soul,
no poetry;
just flesh upon flesh
upon flesh.
And that is more than I can bear.

On a line between life,
and death;
suddenly aware
that the cliché, about
being alive without ever really living,
is truer than ever.
Choosing life
runs the risk of death;
but choosing death
would only mean
another forty years of being alive.