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