Crap Existentialism

Crap existentialism

Among all the shit I’ve seen,

Just what could it mean?

When you keep your dental floss

In the same drawer as your sweets?

Or whether, like me, Keats

Considered the shape of toilet seats

How do I acknowledge this feat –

Who cares what’s in Brown Sauce?

That folk using Twitter to be lewd,

Often manages to lift my mood

And to paraphrase that Pink Floyd theme,

Why did I pick this football team?

I saw culture’s provincialism, consumerism,

Through Marxism, Calvinism, Buddhism

And found it’s all crap existentialism

 

What about existentialism

That’s so collectively crap

It creates a sociological trap?

Remember when Diana died?

In hysterical groupthink they could hide

And repudiate their participatory guilt,

At a phony mausoleum they’d built

Of how much she meant

So common sense was bent,

Then sent, into weird existentialism

 

As for my crises of existentialism,

One is the fear of being as boring

As political point scoring

Is my passion going colder,

By dwelling on getting older?

But then most days I forget

That I’m not quite past it yet

Perhaps it makes me sage?

Trying not to use profanity,

When my obsequious vanity,

Always considers my rising age

It’s not a good combination,

Like mixing the self with flagellation

In these crises of existentialism

 

The worst existentialism

Is continuous, unresolved,

Where doubt seeks to be absolved,

In moments of introspection

Like waking up to a rhetorical question

Such as, why am I so tired?

Has my youth expired?

Surely revitalisation is required?

But how is it acquired?

It might happen suddenly, late at night,

Or when I’m having a shite

Maybe I’m just not that bright?

I mean, it can be a struggle to write

Right! Even if I’m scared to look,

I must finish my bloody book,

And join the delusion of posterity

So I can agonise over my sincerity

Whoa! That was pompous existentialism

 

Why does poetic existentialism

Have to be so fucking pretentious?

You might find this contentious,

But it makes me try to think of lines

That can have a place in any time:

Summertime, is so fleeting,

As winter is constantly repeating

Muse that bliss is expensive,

While pain is extensive

That bureaucracy creates misery,

And it makes us act insincerely

Does it all have to be so deep?

Invariably morbidity is that cheap

In poetic existentialism

 

But, to indulge in ‘true’ existentialism,

Is to ponder the word life

Here’s my best answer –

Believing in the illusion of happiness,

In moments of silence and stillness

Yet this is poetry by a chancer

Which tells us life, will always be rife,

With crap existentialism

About Wichita Lineman Was A Song I Once Heard

Wichita Lineman Was A Song I Once Heard. 'Mediocre blogger and a piously boring and unfunny writer'. Enthusiastic purveyor of the KLF sheep.
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