[Image by jplenio from Pixabay]
Fuck the pyramidal industry of mindfulness.
Fuck the ridiculous millennial life hacks.
Fuck the Generation X-ers
who can’t discriminate the facts.
Fuck the readers of old books who hide
within the caves of fantasy and hate;
and those who think the falling die,
or the circling planets,
have an interest in their fate.
The only right response
to the paradox of life
– to the vicious irony of love’s transience
in a haughty, disregarding universe;
to a sky of stars, all hot or hard,
which slide in measures that we cannot comprehend
of space and size and age,
while all that’s kind and softly beautiful
lies in a mortal flesh that, in decades, rots –
is rage, rage. Is rage.
|‘Fuck’ is a word I prefer to use sparingly in life (outside the context of sex), and so also in poetry. Perhaps that’s merely prim of me. I decided that here it was the right choice. If the Vorticists could use ‘Blast’ in 1915, then ‘Fuck’ was surely its equivalent in 2021, and no more offensive.|