May 14, 2011
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Origin of the Feces
(The Solace of Bullshit)
As a child I remember playing all day
interrupted by challenges and obstacles
and the only future I could ever forsee
were just deadlines, bedtimes and promisesI lived in the now imagining when I am free
I will cross over the 4-lane and explore the whole world
to make anything and everything I wanted to be
with great deeds to be done, advernturous tales to be toldBut sinking fast into fantasy, reality never enough
to entertain my heart or enlighten my spirit
when death shook my structure, despair met my soul
I had a story to tell but only I would ever hear itAll my wisdom was tainted by insider dreaming
my energy wasted on impossible endeavors
or monotonous subservient survivalist sniveling
while escaping to temporary sublime foreversAnd I was lost in this vision, only me and my shadows
my infernal obsession for comforts of the flesh
in my silence hides madness, my words milk my sorrows
my message truly cliche, a common whine of distressAs a man I am empty yet filled with relief
never harming a soul with my considerable delusion
never being the changes I didn’t want to see
and pretending my fears are all brilliant illusion
Comments (6)
imagination and play is essential to childhood and development. That adults tend to hang on to some of their dreams is not of necessity a bad thing but it can be.
Faeces are however, a necessity to a good soil. Indeed, above the lava therir is rock and about that there is compost, that is, dead bodies and shit. We live off it.
Dear Ben,
I just recommended this on the title alone, which has got me falling off my chair. (Not a good thing with a prosthetic hip.) Now to actually read the poem and offer my impression.
“Deadlines, bedtimes, and promises.” Sweet false rhyming.
“I had a story to tell but only I would ever hear it.” A universal complaint.
I like the last stanza the best, and like the first line of that stanza. “As a man I am empty yet filled with relief.”
You continue to amaze me with your wordsmithing. Bravo as always.
Michael F. Nyiri, poet, philosopher, fool
boy howdy, tell it.
fucking gorgeous, ben.
shite, the cosmos, and fire. love your way with words. sigh, and i mean that in more ways than one
oh my..this got my mind working.
“origin of the feces” haha. classy.
loved it