Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Life is so meaningless
that to point it out
is trite.

You didn't want her
then
because she wanted you.
She wants you now because
you wanted her then. She didn't.
You don't. He does. So do you.

Life is so full
of emptiness that
at the edges
it spills out into a tiny void
in the middle.

It's over. Everybody won.
They're dead now. There's
flowers and guilt.
The mass grave
is invisible. It's
a vacation spot.
The brochures are endless,
the writing is beautiful
the pictures lurid and
disgusting.

Life is upside
down. You walk
along the ceiling
tripping over
the entrance as you
leave.

The children are
smarter than the old.
The old are wiser.
The not-yet-born
wiser still. Wisest of all
is never to be born.
Never to have thought.
or to be thought.

Interesting!!
it makes me want to play changing words:

life is so trite
that to point it out
is meaningless

"Life is so full
of emptiness that
at the edges
it spills out into a tiny void
in the middle. "

nice image!!

nice ya ya ya nice..

the last three strophes just about kill the whole project,
which seems just about the thing.

(what the hell is a 'strophe')?

"We were talking about this yesterday," he said. "I held that life was a ferment, a yeasty something which devoured life that it might live, and that living was merely successful piggishness. Why, if there is anything in supply and demand, life is the cheapest thing in the world. There is only so much water, so much earth, so much air; but the life that is demanding to be born is limitless. Nature is a spendthrift. Look at the fish and their millions of eggs. For that matter, look at you and me. In our loins are the possibilities of millions of lives. Could we but find time and opportunity and utilize the last bit and every bit of the unborn life that is in us, we could become the fathers of nations and populate continents. Life? Bah! It has no value. Of cheap things it is the cheapest. Everywhere it goes begging. Nature spills it out with a lavish hand. Where there is room for one life, she sows a thousand lives, and it's life eats life till the strongest and most piggish life is left."

The Sea Wolf Chapter Six

The mass grave
is invisible. It's
a vacation spot.

very nice poem e-dog
Neruda nice I suppose