mr.mincemeat@syteka.UUCP (mr.mincemeat) (04/07/84)
I never get anything done. I just can't do it, It doesn't matter what or when- No task is too trivial Nothing too easy to avoid: Brush my teeth Sweep the floor Shave my face Snap my pants Wipe my ass I let it go I just don't care Nothing is all I want to do. My musculature becomes me But not I it; It grows into an ultra thing; Despite my inner decay My outer waxes mighty. I never thought That I could look like Someone- I doubt that I will ever be That peculiar thing, But the more I am not The more my body Is: Perhaps the end of me Will be the end of it- Different ends of course... As I approach my nadir I have a body made by Zenith; I'll sure make a pretty corpse And they always close the eyes. Thus we complete my file of old, drunk/depressed poems. If or when I return to the net I will come bearing some of my newer stuff (none of which is completed currently. I write very slowly) which is better and reflects my rather happier outlook of late. Final offering (I like plants): Ah the good warmth follows the cold Slow it comes and slow awaken All the numbers of the People To reach and spread and taste the Light To spread and reach among the Food Rest in the dark and grow in the light Follow the light and grow Reaching upward outward outward downward More and more and steadily faster Faster still to feel the budding swelling To feel the flowering explosion! The Pollination! The light filled final surge! *** The seeds are growing All the seeds of the People are growing But the bodies slow and dry The light becomes fierce The bodies dry. The seeds wait above ripe and alone The People draw back again. The bodies dry and crack, the waiting seeds fall. Fall and wait. The great cold and darkness return, The People wait.