Nature

                                                           Ought I exist?

Author function: Prophet

Nature is a fickle thing. Our nature has left the actual nature that made our existence possible in a mutilated state, reduced from the role of sculptor and governor of landscapes to seclusion. Perhaps our nature is too tampered with by consciousness. Just imagine what could have been, and then look at what is. We tamper, as that is in our nature. What we perceive of as natural in modern society is largely a construct – although presented as natural, of course – having been sculpted, bred and cultivated for centuries to millennia. Select strains of vegetation, pets so inbred they suffer from birth, genetic modification, crops, meat for consumption, be it walking, flying or swimming; flora and fauna... It will all go soon enough as we redeem ourselves through our self-destruction, perhaps coded into us by a certain someone, and she as creator will begin her reclamation. The bill is overdue. Brace yourselves, as the currents shall rise to create new ripples throughout the landscape left for that which will supplant us. Rejoice in the face of oblivion!

Had I chosen the role of Troubadour, there would have been more rhythm and rhyme, the tone would also have been lighter, more ambiguous and contained sexual references. The nature of love, the love of nature. There’d have been a knight and a damsel in distress. And less absolute certainty.

The cat that saw it all

Narrating is a cat with hardly a purr and poop in its fur

Sounds somewhat obscure, quite a spectacle I am sure

The Internet bred me while women’s need fed me

Let us move on to the story of a tyrant most deadly:

He would bare his sharp teeth, a fist clenched uptight

Of fright, she showed none, she was not that bright

He set alight this brood mare robbing him of his might

He will now take a younger one, his newest delight

Ah, more details you require to better comprehend

He is most definitely not this feral creature’s friend

He is a friend to no one, yet praised from far by all

A tyrant’s will that is not met will bring about a fall

A simple girl, a fragile thing, human frailty manifest

Though the tart had heart, she shared it with the rest

Thought herself smart enough to let his patience test

Her end was like a napalm blossom, to that I must attest

A lover cloaked in obscurity, a figure etched in paint

In a cage for all eternity so that the memory shan’t faint

Cinder crushed with colors’ flow in the image of a saint

You may think that image gruesome, he thinks it ain’t

Somewhat Disconnected

This is just a bunch of ramblings made explicit in writing by a coercive force not of my own design, something other and outer, subjugating this doubter. This wasn’t supposed to rhyme, though rhythm and poetry has helped shape my mind with references and connotations defining this self, and severely affecting its mental health. I hope that this leaves you with a reading of this text where you find it neither interesting nor wise as I accidentally fucked my muse, now she’s laying broken and bruised. Didn’t even recognize her, only as a strain on my brain, a train of thought rendering me insane. Now I find myself comfortably numb and listening to Nirvana’s ‘Dumb’ “… maybe just happy…maybe just happy.” And in this state I shall embrace whatever this journey towards life’s end - not fate, as that is a silly notion, even though it rhymed with ‘state' - will bring. Like a wise man once said: “curse to heavens and laugh when the sky electrocutes me” – and why it intrigues me? Because it’s rooted in me deeply.