Anti-existence

By Samhita K

I exist, I merely do
No shortcut in this holographic scam called life.
I've cut off ties, but they torment me—my sense of self,
and the world around me.

Wallowing in agony, as the muck smacks the shelves of
my mind.
The fact that I have to woefully accept the insanity of
these times
is, by itself, a miserable hell of a crime!
Who gives a dime in these monstrous times?

Being human is hardly sublime!
A tumultuous storm, a voluptuous volcano
that can't cool off its jets at a jest so unkind.

Chemical control, manipulative roles
some fish play throughout.

They fawn, feign, an’ scowl,
swerving me off the ground—
in this inglorious storm!
Become grounded for what, Bob?
Rather have groundnuts, flummoxed!

No pit to swamp them downtown,
fog, smog, and what not in the town!
Lucidity, my Gawd!
Who runs the golly uptown?
Dormant criminality of sorts,
lurking beneath—
shadowy silhouettes of goth,
usurping as I beseech...

Hardly think I'm hardy
in times such as these.
Got some nerve for what?
Swirl around for what?
Life is an existential machine—
sadomasochist, harrowing indeed.
Freud may say it's projection, you freak!
Wouldn’t Jung see beyond the screen, Higgs?

Seeker of Truth
Attempts bear no fruit.
Rotten fruit salad,
fuzzy at the aisle.
Karmic blackboard hoarded—
day after day, night after night,
one nightmare after another,
one siesta after another.

The point is—I've got nothing to prove.
Of unravelling some sense
of godawful existence,
of trying to make things smooth...

What good is a boat
with no water to float the note?
The waters are murky and dark.
Ahead lie rugged rocks, docked...

As ignoble as this poem might seem,
Faithfully yours,
chic and pristine,

See.

For
You
can

Glean in on the
in-betweens.