i simply don't want to write...
nothing is supposed to be necessary
in order for it to be written about...

the leaf can fall without me being
concerned about whether it's
the end of autumn of the beginning of
winter...

fatigue / lethargy / fatigue / lethargy...
catatonia... pre-mature malaise of all sorts...
dislodged from a people:
attached to "a people" mocking
themselves -
forever celebrating... "individualism":

i don't want to write -
i just want to drink, fall asleep,
thus waking at the god-given hour of
a morning -
but... even, as i do:
there is no vigor to be tasted...
to find...
beside the name alone?
this feels like a scuttling rat grin...
a yawn of civilisation...

it may be - and that's not: maybe...
it may be just that...
a London that's sinking into mud...
it's heaving and panting from a certain
lovenliness:

i don't want to write...
i want to drink and go to sleep...
i want to tease the 8 hours of sleep
with something akin
to: begging from the altar of death...

there's hardly a macabre insistence in me...
in that there's a...
before i truly die...
i can count the 365 times i die
by falling asleep each year...
what it death than the one dream
i am waiting for?

i have pitiable concerns to make concerns
for "life":
what are these 20th century readings
of the existential labyrinth
and colosseum in minding the:
internal-world of thought?

i wasted the study of chemistry
on organic schematics of "migrating" electrons...
electrons: that exist in a quantum "paradox"...

have an opinion?
why?
call for the grand affairs of life akin
to love?
why?
is there really anything less random
that having the gravity of ego
to succumb to the orbit of peering
into a tree and calling it:
a susceptible - something or other...

perhaps i too, once, believed...
in investing my time in these minor:
"obligations"...
but...
i read the first two lines of:

the heat of autumn
by jane hirshfield

the heat of autumn
is different from the heat of summer -

well, if, this is poetry?
then i'll do my mediocre best...
to replicate...

now i just want to drink my fill
bite into a naproxen tablet
and hope to wake up early the next morning...
with the duty of waiting
for a package to be delivered...

i have yet to have lived a life:
but not having lived it...
is such a point of focus to mind:
also not being that well-versed
tourist of sorts...

perhaps i have come to realise that...
this language...
once so precious...
not something given,
or born with...
but... acquired - learned...

can serve as the canvas for all
sort of mutilations,
apathy riddles and...
flimsy: go-aways...
i can write in it like any way i want...
or rather: do not want...
nonchalantly...

i can test myself in this medium
of: stressing the necessary mediocre...
i can write a "poem" a poo'em
like a door needs a knock-knock...
a forest needs the question:
does a falling tree make a sound,
when no one is there to hear it?
i can write my mediocre...

perhaps that's all i want to do right now...
otherwise, for what?
for clouds to "bend the knee"
and succumb to becoming:
in the shape of swans / castles?

i guess i have to write my mediocre...
i have just seen too many "profound"
editorial choices...
not even if there was some FACT
in what was written...
i'd still, rather, remain...
oblivious to what's otherwise best,
for me:
shortcoming on both
dialectics and regurgitation...
and a subconscious desire for plagiarism /
imitation.

to hell with it...
these words were always as necessary
at atoms... which huddled together
and said: compounds!
it's good to have this sinking sensation
of having arrived
at an apathy that feels like
gurgling custard... with your mouth closed:
or at least attempting to...

i just tried... impossible...
the R-trill is teased...
and that will be the day...
the English re-discover the R on the trill
with the Fwench...
again... i am simply thankful to finish
this day... without having to
habour a high opinion about myself -
or my writing...

an honest translation:
of what had to have began - and ended with...
a true... depiction of: mediocre.