He was a friend I knew so well that sometimes I would almost wonder
which of us was which

And its funny
considering myself the sort of thing I consider myself
and trying to work out what I'm suited to or what kinds of abilities or fortunes I have

How is it that we human beings can be that we don't know such things?

Being a thinking being which thinking says has properties he does not himself understand
acts for reasons he does not himself realise
exists for a length of time largely out of his control
without having chosen necessarily to exist at all
and hardly ever having chosen to stop

So its funny that we should respect dead people
when we did not respect them while they were alive

After all dead people aren't people
they're just thoughts in the thinking of others
a few scattered ashes and we act as though they still existed
almost better

And maybe there's something in that
maybe they are
better dead

Now the play has finished we can consider the whole
pausing to prolong the anticipation of each climax
and the nothingness that follows like a question :
How could that have been?

Freed for a moment from the demands of holding back and thrusting forward
death throbs through him a few more times and spurts out his life
like some final orgasm

He was walking down the road to fetch a newspaper.
A lamp post fell on him.

And he'd just started writing a novel which was kind of autobiographical
and it might have been a bestseller

Poetry by Andrew Bindon
Read 797 times
Written on 2016-07-01 at 02:40

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