Poem | and what of my ill fated character

That infinite static chill

of the next great boon

has come yet again

to eat him alive.

But this time,

there’s nothing left

Because he’s wasted,

having wasted himself

spending all his misfortune

so lavishly

It’s true.

He douse’t want to be here anymore.

But that’s his burden, his starvation,

his own god damn

cannibalism.

And I wonder to myself

with a heavy ambiguity,

what out of everything I’ve written,

all suddenly so incoherent,

will ever be worth

reading?

Maybe non of it…

And then our lives

will have been

for nothing,

and

It all together seems

so obvious to me

the decision is

the same as

turning off

the tv.

Because there’s nothing left, and

triviality will always linger like static,

and it’s the flames behind the man

which was his reason for jumping

Not those terrible flames

which devoured him

long ago…

Ohh god, how many days

can a person wake up

to immediately

wishing it

all to

end?

And in his own optimistic way,

my character thinks about

how even Hemingway

had crow's feet.

Our great eternal conversation.

He knows its better to be hopeful

than to harbour it. Such is

a delusional state, and

if there was ever beauty

in the suffering - if there was ever

beauty at all, then such a thing is

abundant - and therefore

‘lucky’ better describes

that familiar disquiet

my character

finds him-

-self.

And me, myself, well,

I just hope he’s

alright.

…