'I'
Withnail, I said,
You've done it again.
Given a life lesson inside your head.
To me.
Have you never ever read Dostoyevsky?
The bitter man who writes notes from the underground.
Do you hear that sound?
The crisis of existence; man counts his troubles but he cannot measure happiness.
To love is to suffer, without suffering there could be no love.
I stress.
This point to you.
Now I'm doing it too. Giving lessons.
And for what? Of Guy Debord?
A world where appearances mean more.
A society of images, not truth,
Succeeding by convincing you I do?
Playing in the dress shop of material endeavour encapsulating the unitary whole of endless choice through consumption unwittingly worshipping product, image, product.
Narcissistic me. I think not.
I walk in the dark. This is my appearance, my purpose.
I fail. Forever. Saints Go Machine.
Someone like 'you' 'In Luminem Ambula' forgot.
A Lonely little pig at the trough.
I do not walk in the light. These are far far too post, post-modern times.
Authenticity is a wasteland of iconoclastic reverence, sold back to us without a dream. The dark meaningless abyss.
We all wear masks, unless we are indeed the light, the source, the meditative silence. That speaks no violence.
My poem, was it just for you.
What cards would you show. It's not obligatory of course.
This response was easy.
No emotional labour required, you carried out that labour for me.
'I' simply reacted. 'I' acted. After the fact.
Though, I like critics - at least they care. They do, really really care.
I'm a critic too.
And I don't even know you.