The universe,
A river.
A memory being recalled
Over and
Over again.
The details are built
With a common likeness
An inescapable sameness
That all these ugly words won’t capture.
The lust is new again
Until it gets old,
A familiar, ticking timebomb of boredom.
It waits,
As only boredom can.
I can feel every second passing like chunks of sand
Falling away from my beach-side castle,
And rejoining the inanimate that we once breathed into being.
The clock slashes away one second at a time
Like it were counting filthy coins into paper rolls
And something in me takes each tick like the
Smiling end of a razor blade come home to play.
I remember feeling awake sometime before these
transmuted nightmares became dreams of someone else’s’ design.
Now only the numb minutes remain,
The hours we could never kill
And that drown us as we choked for more life
Only to taste more boredom.
The thoughts pour our of my brain
And steam through the open air,
All on the tip of my tongue but never captured.
I reach out a searching, slender finger
An attempt to capture or excite them onto the paper
Or at worst, grab them around the neck and wrestle them onto the page.
Boredom burns in me like a smouldering pile of ashes,
Useless and existing but nothing else,
I have no use for it except that it disgusts me
And maybe that toxic reaction pushes me on.
We kill time,
because we're afriad of it
and what we fear
we destroy unprovoked.
A society of men and women
intimidated by empty hours
afraid to face the minutes without
stuffing them full of mindless entertainment.
A never-ending cycle of mediocraty
encompasses Can/American culture
to the point every pleasure becomes
guilty.
That's a fitting label in a society of sinners,
who only commit the lamest and most
selfish
of sins,
and never the exciting ones to confess or live.
Or maybe we are exciting,
with sky-rocketing adultery and greed
living to fuck and spend
and people say Freud is
no longer in vogue,
but that's because he is feared
as truth often is.
There is something like the Confessions
coming
but I never found God
and I'm not remorseful.
I was vengeful,
I hated
I cheated
I harmed my fellow man
I destroyed whole individuals
and I certain lied,
but I'm no different morally than the
vast ocean of human emptiness we call a race,
I'm just a sliver more exciting than most,
but mountains less boring than others.
Don't be afraid of that boredom,
embrace it,
Time is leaking out of our pores
a few skin cells fall off with every touch
– the great sand people,
a mock Terracotta Army –
but here I still stand
and you do too,
or you could lay with me and
forget about the boredom for awhile.
Life is used up all the same,
and I'm stabbing at my boredom lately
like a damned peon,
when I should be holding it like a lover.
Life is not made up of big moments, surrounded by the everyday. Life is the everyday and the big moments float as debris on a still lake.
They bring character, a sense of optimism for something more than just a still, lonely lake, and most of all, a possibility of something new. Nobody knows from whence the river flows, but that it flows makes a world of difference. Staring at the same water gets old, and bathing in the same water is death.
There's nothing written about the water being bluer on the other side, and it would be a lie if there were. All water, earth, love, and hatred are the same, and only a matter of varying degrees. Sadness is the same. Everything is the same.
I walk on days-old snow, destroying the calmness of frozen surfaces. There never has been more or less than in this moment. Everything is the same. Life is a series of the in-between moments, occasionally punctuated by the novel.
Love is the coldest lake, and the less still. The boredom of love is an abyss that drains the life from the healthy to the point they wither and die instantaneously. Maybe there is no ressurection afterwards, although we all limp forward and try. Once corrupted, maybe love is never to be saved.
A splash of caffeine rakes its hot fingers through the gooey areas of my brain. Something stirs. Madness sits, a raven, keeping the eggs that are my ideas warm until the hatch into still-born lines about things nobody knows. There is only one loss in life worthy of the name, that of progress and love. The endless march of progress losses everything to gain nothing, and it eats at love like a flame eats at gasoline. The funeral was held at the lake.
Stillness pervaded, nothing stirred.
where's the freedom in these words?
I didn't even write them -not literally.
BUT FUCK YOU MATERIALISM because I chose them
in the true sense that matters,
not by their shapes,
because even if I drew them out
I'm just copying an idea of a lettr that makes a word none of us can agree upon the meaning for –
not really, anyways.
When does free will matter?
Only when blame needs to be assigned, really..
when your life has become such a dump that you
want to put it on somebody
else's shoulders
because you dont take the
idea of personal
RESPONSIBILITY
seriously.
it's true but you won't accept that.
I hope you hate me for this,
or love me –
being in the middle is unacceptable,
because that's boring and you're boring
and this poem became boring.
The stream of life changes little
in the face of rocks of doubt.
Calm pervades as the water
finds the path of least resistance.
Boring.
I can speak of loneliness with the best of them,
and love with nobody.
Thinkers,
decimated by boredom,
depression,
wonder where the
'something more'
is.
Pearly gates not just out of reach,
but out of sight,
even out of mind,
for many.
A pressure dances across my forehead,
pounces around my numb ears,
and boots me in between the eyes.
There will be no relief for the saints
sinners
or the dead.
Something stagnant,
but comfortable,
and safe.
Something taken for granted,
chokes and fails,
giving way to,
nothing of value.
Something appreciated and nourished,
gets back up,
with every fall,
and won't die.
Boredom battling,
against an ideal of novelty,
scarcely acknowledged,
never understood.
Take it from a man,
who has survived many trenches,
nothing comes easy,
but something breaks easy.
Progress is possible
resistance is not futile.
Andy Veilleux 