Laying a False Trail across the Visceral Ether…
https://artillerymag.com/publication-in-the-age-of-negation-part-viii/
November 1, 2022
Publication In The Age Of Negation pt.7
Sex, Drugs and Bad Writing
https://artillerymag.com/sex-drugs-and-bad-writing/
March 3, 2021
World on a String
Beneath the unforgiving staleness
of the lucky old sun,
on the sunny side
of the empty street,
what’s left of the past dries up
in the heat.
Not far from the wedding chapels
and the sea of fun,
the action drains
into a slum.
It is quieter here,
the people are thinner,
the world’s un-stringed,
and everyone’s a sore winner.
That’s life, frankly sinful: entertaining
the possibility that life might be more
than a series of missed opportunities.
Riding a lukewarm streak
into a lonely road and a memory.
Sensing the disinterest, feeling
my insignificance, made keenly aware,
in a world of burgers and fear,
of my newly minted irrelevance.
Out here, you are nothing
and the past is paste,
as the world’s indifference shifts
into fragmented waste.
From sedentary restlessness
to flaneurial nausea, pursued by
but eluding grace.
Days of futile transit
redefine my sense of wonder.
Manifesting without the emptiness
within, between lesser known ruins,
in a promised wasteland
of lost opportunities.
When I catch myself unawares,
in the November of my years,
I’m hardly even there,
and I have never been so tired
of talking to myself.
July 22, 2017
The lowest form of literary endeavor
Yet I honor this stale ceremony.
As if anything of value might be extracted from the refinement of futility.
Recoiling from the sight of these words dying on the page.
The results induce uneasiness and distaste, but I must press on and complete something for once in my life, even if it should have been expunged from my system twenty years ago and has grown irredeemably stale; even if it falls miserably short of my aim, not that I ever had an aim.
It would be nice if all this was building up to something. But it isn’t.
Nevertheless, I proceed.
Towards what futile end I know not.
I thought there was still time to get started but it’s almost all over.
Maybe I’ve done everything I was ever capable of doing.
Just because it went unnoticed doesn’t mean it’s not over.
At this rate, maybe, in ten years time, if I’m lucky, I might have completed something, if I live that long.
I certainly can’t blame anybody for their indifference. I already find my own interest waning.
There’s no point carrying on about it.
This is surely the lowest form of literary endeavor: driveling on about oneself.
What’s the point of actualizing oneself if nobody can relate to what you’re actualizing or derive derive any solace from it?
But it can be pleasant sitting here, stroking the keys in anticipation.
There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. That’s the sad part… one of the saddest parts.
At least write one line this morning:
November 15, 2013
Watching, Listening, Waiting
Putting in the time:
Watching: the trembling curtains.
Listening: to the constant hum of indecision.
Waiting: to languish without remorse or hope
of false dawn; to be able to do nothing
and call it nothing. To sink:
where I have never sunk before.
To fade, only to be found again.
John Tottenham 