Six Existential Poems

Duck Syndrome

bad luck lark

called duck

seems stuck

in the truck

in a dirt muck

that must suck,

but the duck

has lil luck:

lack of fuck.

...

be like a duck>

doesn't give a fuck<

(2021)

Genealogy of Married

married

married

married

married

married

mar

ried

mar

ried

mar

ried

mar

ried

mar

ried

<died>

who?

wo

ai

ni

wo

ai

ni

wo(e)

-rried

wo(e)

-rried

wo(e)

-rried

wo(e)

worry

worry-

ing

worri-

some—

worries

wo(e)

-rrier

wo(e)

-rrier

wo(e)

-rrier

wo(e)

-rrier

woe-

fully

woe

-ful

woe

-be-

gone

wow.

(2021)

Tell Me Why, Baby...

Baby, why do we go to school? obey the rules. Why do we go to university? handing over our creativity to those rubbish educational hierarchy. Why do we work for twenty, thirty, forty, or maybe fifty years? surrendered our soul to those rigid companies.

Baby, why do we get married? drown ourselves to endless responsibility. Why do we breed a few children? raise them to deal with goddamn reality. Why do we fall down to the same rabbit hole? to repeat the whole ceaselessly of our condemned destiny. Baby, why do we want eternity? if this mortality was so weary.

And why do we want to be born again? worn a torn again, again, and again. And why do we think we have freedom? If freedom words indicate that we never have any freedom. And why do we seek for a meaning? if the meaning has no single meaning.

And why do we still live this meaningless life? strive for essence that always hides and seeks inside our breath. And why do we always deceive ourselves? then dying with the worst of regret. Tell me why baby, why we are so naive, and the death was so underrated. And why can't we be bored to death?

(2021)

Why is Blue So Rare in Nature?

There are no blue tigers. No blue bats, no blue squirrels, blue cats, blue dogs, or blue horses. Even the blue whales aren't that blue. In nature or in the zoo.

Animals come in pretty much every color. But blue seems to be the rarest. So please answer my why or tell me pretty lies?

Whether half of the blue in nature belongs to humans, to poetry, to reality, or to us? If it's true, we need to trust that it is the saddest truth in nature study—who always comes so absurdly, so out of the blue in the deepest phrase of suddenly.

(2021)

Le Mythe de l'abysse

It's foolish to say that existential crisis has more crises than climate crisis. So we look outside to find the root of the crisis. But deeply we feel the crisis is inside—of ourselves. Sounds crappy. Because we don't know what the heck we miss. We stare into the abyss.

Time flies so fast as fast we are happy then bite the dust. Hence, resistance is a must. Honey, let's gaze at the sky. Thus the darkest the night, the brighter the stars. Look, chaotically—tells us that the core of reality is the most chaotic of chaos.

Now we know one thing, something that hurts us—being able to kill us. And something that kills—makes us invincible. Like a second spring who brings endless lust.

It's brutally true when they say we were lost; long before we were born. But we aren't born and are grown to drown. It doesn't mean we need to say—that life has no intrinsic meaning, so what's the point of living?

Yes, we were born to postpone the biggest loss. It's truly yes that life has no intrinsic meaning, that's why the point is just living. Feel the vibes—or suck the merely of life—before we lose for the nothingness of nothing.

(2021)

TXT MSG from Your Existentialist

Studying philosophy is a poetic way to find meaning—or lose the meaning. Sounds like the art of thinking. Technically, a war cry to goddamn overthinking. Cynically—a quarrel with what, who, when, why, where, & how. Now and endlessly.

To be the eternal pupil of a question. To take action and responsibility. To picture a civilization. To fulfill our deepest nature. To conquer maturity. To live with aesthetic and ethic. To be a human who humanizes other humans. To use our potency as the most intelligent being—in the continuum illness of space & time.

To learn how to die—without the worst of remorse. To accept fate: that the only things we know are nothing. And to love the unpleasant truth—that the more we know, the sorrow we get. Even in the end; it doesn't really matter at all.

(2021)