December 2, 2017
I have a heart like a wheelbarrow,
there are no windmills in my mind.
Love blows in and floats around freely
like the wind – getting in the way
of other things.
This rootless love without design,
which has no object, point or point of origin –
one looks for it in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.
It seeks definition, a place of rest,
to find its home in a woman’s breast –
to die there, or multiply there.
When, surely, to keep it to oneself
would be best.
Posted in Antiepithalamia |
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December 4, 2013
There no longer seems to be any point
in pointing out the pointlessness.
It hardly seems worth lamenting anymore.
After all this talk of giving up, just do it.
Don’t worry. Nobody will even notice.
Posted in Negative Affirmations, Pointless Revelations |
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June 6, 2012
The most important thing is to stop writing, now: to stop prioritizing this so-called work that generates no income and that nobody will ever read. This futile, masochistic, self-indulgent pretense of industry interferes with everything; it is carried out at the expense of love and work: real work, that is, the kind that is a visible manifestation of mental effort, not this endless supposed honing of my craft compounded by the preposterous conceit that the torturous process of giving shape to my thoughts actually serves some sort of purpose, when it is mostly an excuse to immerse myself in a morbidly self-reflective haze, of which there is seldom any visible manifestation.
Posted in Prose of Regret and Resentment |
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John Tottenham 