Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The righteous certainty of the obstinate arsehole

Still figuring out
your place in the world?
At one and twenty
you've got it nailed.
Nailed it
When you post on Facebook;
Nailed it
When you blog banality, look!
You nailed it
when you monitor memes.
Aphorisms for the feeble minded,
fickle as figs on the way in or out.
Complex is fine
AND nothing to shout about,
as long as it's how you see
your own place in the scene.
The false faces we wear
we create in the e-ther;
better they stay there.

Now that's not a truth
that's easy to learn.
It's a difficult truth
that we try and spurn,
spoiled children
sucking on sweets,
stuck in the cauldron
while wiccans tweet
meaningless twaddle,
convinced that's it poignant
because it's personal,
political, pointless and pointed
right between a third eye
blind to the big data subject,
subject itself
to everything
all the time.

Doubt is like that.
Doubtless you've thought
about what people think
of you, wasted hours,
days, weeks, drinking sour
reflection of your sweet self
from pixelated faces;
while books, unread, sit 
homeless, placeless
on a thrift store shelf.

The only opinion that matters
is none, none at all;
standing tall
at an empty funeral is just fine.
A box made of pine
and not a mourner in sight
nor of sound as the clowns
on pipes howl brightly
"For he's a jolly good fellow"
Oh he was... Was he?
Let history decide.
History only cares about arseholes,
saintly liars and half truths;
and so we sit
on pages unturned
in the digital age.
The wisdom of sages
boiled down to ten words
or less, spittle dropping
data pirates throwing 
good coin after bad taste.

Turn your eyes to the mainsail
and let he who directs it
do what he does,
grab a virtual bucket and bail
or we'll all go down together
in a malleable sea
that cares not a whit
for who you might be,
online or in history books.
It's who you are to me
in the flesh, cooked
medium rare and tasty,
that I'll remember best;
and that not for long
because frankly I don't really care.