On the buzzcut teleology

There is a nihilist near here, I hear,
who suffers from bibliomania. He reads
receipts, movie scripts, prescriptions,
scraps of paper in the street—
he does not know, at this moment,
the 12th of January (he doesn’t believe
in calendars) that he too seeks
what all the mystics have ever sought—
it is not God—it is not man,
woman, a certain sodomy or script—
it is not poverty (though he has that)
nor a peculiar concoction of the brain—
it is the end of nihilism, what all
the white kids ever had who read
the histories of their insane kind,
in kind, who built on blood the species
as it is: there is a weary nihilist
near here who pretends in language
what he disbelieves in instinct
when a recluse on his shower drain
terrifies him to the brink—


~ by Jeremy on June 25, 2013.

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