To masturbate with love and hate
Is the game we play with words
To label the life of our illusion,
An infusion of emotional confusion
To the lack of minus or plus
In the tough rough and tumble we call life.
The sauce of meaning we each pour
To flavor the neutrality of time
Implies an entity that laughs and grumbles
At the interplay of us and all that we each feel
In the free fall of dice to infer motivation
Where there is none, the universe
Quite simply doesn’t care.
There is no one there.
Each tick of the clock that we presume
Slices our Moon with shadow
Until it vanishes in doubt
Touches the vast mystery of totalities
Wherein we fabricate a fragile fate of direction
Into an infection of ourselves,
A disease of unease we cultivate
To architect into our inner being
An importance of our presence,
A peacock tail to no avail to strut
Within our tiny planetary yard.
Here and gone is what is,
No need to infer any more,
To grab pleasure or deplore
The clownish horrors we create
As if there is any more
Than that final dust to end it all
Is just personal theatrics.
Might as well just have our fun
And be done.
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