EXISTENTIAL POEM #4

the pursuit of pleasure disappoints sempiternally
as it matures like fruit, like apples, or pears --- (pears of anguish),
    in order to just die
and rot! and becoming useless, and stink, and look sad---
like the dreams and aspirations
  of all these passive human beings
  flowing like a tide of the ocean to the bleating pulse of its heart,
  through the aqueducts, via channels, gutters
     of existence.

the pursuit of pleasure disappoints sempiternally
although possibility does not;
possibilities just are, and as such,  
           could not be considered subject to timeliness;
beyond the bounds of mere cause and effect
rages a stormquake, razors whirling in winds of suicide;
   of endless and omni-devouring possibility,
   cutting your flesh
   --- like butter ---
      or like throats.

the pursuit of pleasure disappoints sempiternally
   as it always ends in the dens of opium, syringe hells and abysses of angst ---
   the rock bottom of crack cracking lifes to bits and pieces
   the grotesque irony of pairing friendship with desperation
   and the cesspools of all greed and hedonism,
and never with the paradise you were promised: 
   now you have it; now you need more
         --- heroinist of existential utopia ---
...and so the pursuit continues
   with no opaque light --- no fucking diamond sun ---
     but some thick, obnoxious greyness
     at the end of this diabolically weird tunnel...

   ---paradism is a fraud---rape this idea

the pursuit of pleasure disappoints sempiternally
   as we all suck our life
   --- like mosquitoes ---
from what we conceive as "love";
what we embody as "love",
and what we worship as "love";

we get stuck
in the sludgy rigidity of mutually assured misfortune
between one another, that we pass along through friendship
   and we live our lives
   as if possibilites were just
   something you read about
   in some book, some time, long long ago,
   and as if the aspiration of a happy existence
            ---myth---

the applause echo strong
     and ovations come many,
from those who believe its all a facade;
a show - a performance - or a joke,
yet in the midst of their own bermuda triangles
     below
     lies something
     dormant
     slumbering
     in the deep mud pool ... that existed before reason ---

the most devastating human condition there is,
is having clearsight into the future,
     abound with its ceaselessly proliferating possibilities,
but knowing
that you will never even begin to amount
to what you really want to be ---
     and really could become---

I distill life :::::
     to a fine, old wine
bitter with the melancholy of being aware ---
aftertaste, anxiety, the inferno of spiritual becoming ---
     kierkegaard
     eternal :::::
hedonophobia
    and hedonism
    split me apart
     like the piece of meat
     i am  ---

a whore on the brink of death.