I've written three moderately long pieces in the last twenty-four hours, but still find myself with the urge to blog a little more. Since I have nothing more to say at the moment, I thought I might post a poem of mine. It isn't utterly irrelevant to the subject of antinatalism, and besides...well, it's my blog...
A Physicist/Theologian/Linguist/Philosopher/Poet Discusses Poetry in Terms of His Particular Naturalistic Metaphysic(s) …Back Pocket Scribblings
A gnat, trapped against the
Windshield of a moving
Car, vomits up its life,
Just moments before life
Returns the favor…it’s
Another fatal notch
Cut into entropy’s
Pistol grip, or bedpost,
Depending on how one
Looks at it.
Derrida dipped a dinosaur
Into a vat of sulfuric
Analysis, and discovered
Smoke-a double-edged conclusion
To be sure.
But, like Chomsky, he
Was right and wrong,
Or, left and wrong.
Or left and right
……………………………..Like a Pendulum do.
Conservation of energy
Begat horizontal masturbation along the Planck/Plath timeline
(or, start anywhere you choose) ,
Begat slant logic-
That is, of course,
Until genesis was ripped out of the bible,
And we were left, stranded,
With cover to cover revelation
But nature won’t budge;
At least, not on purpose.
She’s a blind, enigmatic lass,
Glued to the mirror,
And pretending to be a womb w/a view.
Essence precedes existence, indeed!
Did anybody else hear a giggle?
She turned herself inside out,
And the resulting surprise came with a bang.
Now, on to the meat of things…
There was this little girl,
Only child of parents subsequently
Rendered sterile in a bunging jumping accident.
The perp got off hands free,
Thanks to the help of a conniving lawyer,
Who, himself, eats puppies before bedtime,
Though hunks of flesh and DNA were actually detectable,
And still exist under her fingernails.
Oh, and the little girl
Also had a puppy, which
Was also murdered right before she was,
While she was forced to watch.
At the funeral, the theologian performed a eulogy,
And some members of the cast
Breathed big, hesitant sighs of relief.
And the physicist promised release from pain,
And the parents wept.
And the linguist discussed the meaning of meaning,
And of death from sundry points of view,
And he was heckled from the podium.
The philosopher fared no better,
Though some in the crowd
Recognized his sincerity, and shrugged.
And they were poets, one and all,
Though they never acknowledged the fact.
Oh, and one other,
Who stood apart from the proceedings,
Writing in a dog-eared notebook
With the stub of a pencil.
He was also a poet,
And knew it,
And, after finishing his piece,
He quickly skimmed over the content,
Paying more than some attention to the style;
The flow, as it were.
It wasn’t particularly sonorous,
But it was tight,
And, more importantly,
It sounded contemporary…
Then, when he was through,
He promptly shoved the aforementioned
Stub of a pencil into his
Eye, and fell to the green, green
Grass, under the glistening orb
Of the unforgiving sun.
Another poet, happening by,
Dipped his index finger into
The bloody socket of the wounded
Poet’s eye, put it to his mouth,
Sucked on it for a moment, and was allegedly heard to remark,
"It just doesn’t work…perhaps
You could use the assistance
Of a mentor."
Wrapping up, he and the funeral
Procession soon disappeared over
The hill, the sound of music emanating from their I-Pods
Dwindling as they disappeared into
The unforgiving face of the setting sun.