A new epic for Sartre

The register of notions, mild emotions
and sinister scripts one elicits
eventually whimper out, and deliver
fully from the weight of their sulkings.
Alas, ennui passes. Alas, pleasure passes.
Misery lurks and passes. What we tell ourselves
clings to our skulls and seize what medicine men
call “wellbeing.” How exult the masses
when they work alongside each other, huff
and gloat, teem and multiply, ache and write—
how sullen I am! How stuck and chided—
how lonely, how young—in ten years’ time,
when I sip from the tap and quote other
misanthropes (always egomaniacs them),
when I see in men myself and despise
such trainwrecks, such dopes, such brats—
in ten years’ time when my hair goes,
when my body bloats, when my pale skin
exudes the glint of sickliness,
when my narcissism creaks and cracks
and I become the mass—when I
drive off of an overpass or die
by the hands of the people I’ve wronged,
or die every night inside a man—
when I’m nude in a motel and wring
the Bible in my hands apart, saying
“Why hast thou forsaken me,”
when I crown myself and shudder—
when I make small-talk with strangers
I live with, with my mother gray haired
and half-destroyed for my sake—
when I wreck my nose and install
under my eyes the permanent drags
of irresponsible living, a life
for which I remained too small a boy
gripping his mother’s hand in a parking lot—
how exult this surly son delivered
from that spited audience, himself—
how exult, like any man of antiquity
dead before he knew it (that weight
in your belly is easily ignored,
but cancer haunts every organ)—
how exult in ten years’ time when I
make amends with sensitivity and suicide
reveals itself for the myth it is:
for there is only living with the flesh
around your eyesight, the evidence you exist—

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~ by Jeremy on June 19, 2013.

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