Please excuse the brutal realism...
You are catapulted into life
between the buttocks of your mother
like a fart, most furiously and forcefully,
and of course it hurts,
and you do right in screaming out aloud
but soon forget,
that that scream would be valid all your life,
that flight of constant turbulence of torture
which will never leave you quite in peace
from worries, anguish and anxieties;
so that first scream of yours
you never really would have any reason to lay off,
the turbulence and torture always getting worse,
your wisdom and maturity acquiring ground
exclusively at the most devastating cost
of all illusions, harmony and happiness,
which always are replaced by that first truth of yours,
the scream of pain of your original,
which all your life you try to get away from
by escaping into new illusions, alcohol or drugs,
which always prove completely vain,
until you finally are earthed and landed
safely into life's uniquely certain destination,
the final grave of some relief,
in which you end up into ruins
that confirm the definite veracity
of that first scream of yours.
That flight of life was no more than a scream
and a primeval terror of your final touchdown,
which will haunt you and torment you all your life
until you finally are ready
to start it all over again from the beginning.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 482 times
Written on 2009-03-06 at 23:45
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The Flight of Life
You are catapulted into life
between the buttocks of your mother
like a fart, most furiously and forcefully,
and of course it hurts,
and you do right in screaming out aloud
but soon forget,
that that scream would be valid all your life,
that flight of constant turbulence of torture
which will never leave you quite in peace
from worries, anguish and anxieties;
so that first scream of yours
you never really would have any reason to lay off,
the turbulence and torture always getting worse,
your wisdom and maturity acquiring ground
exclusively at the most devastating cost
of all illusions, harmony and happiness,
which always are replaced by that first truth of yours,
the scream of pain of your original,
which all your life you try to get away from
by escaping into new illusions, alcohol or drugs,
which always prove completely vain,
until you finally are earthed and landed
safely into life's uniquely certain destination,
the final grave of some relief,
in which you end up into ruins
that confirm the definite veracity
of that first scream of yours.
That flight of life was no more than a scream
and a primeval terror of your final touchdown,
which will haunt you and torment you all your life
until you finally are ready
to start it all over again from the beginning.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 482 times
Written on 2009-03-06 at 23:45
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text