How stark that life of slouchy avoidance,
Thinking all day and all night of nothing,
Alone in my room with Nietzsche and Sartre.
Nothing is what I’d come from, nowhere
Is where I’d been, and I was nothing’s man.
Nothing was the matter, I’d not answer
If no one asked, for nothing was the point,
And nothing the view I’d take on faith.
When I died, I’d not be as I had not been
Before I was born, with nothing for a name.
Meanwhile I’d cuddle in a vacuum with my abyss,
Whispering endearing stuff: “My darling
Emptiness, my almost electron, my blank pet.”
Later with no one, I’d not celebrate
No event, for nothing was what I loved.
What I hated were people doing things:
Bouncing balls, counting, squirming into jeans
When oblivion waited in every ditch.
I could hear black motors not starting up,
And zeros going nowhere, nothing’s gang. |
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