PoetryForms/poems/4.txt
Clarissa Littler 2a7d930c84 almost there
2020-09-29 14:11:46 -07:00

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The spirit of the end
is upon me, [REDACTED] annointed me to
preach a lost gospel of death
a [negative|inverse] kind
of utilitarian metaphysics
suicide as praxis, surrender as our
resistance against evil
For I have been [assured|convinced|deceived] by the one
true zeitgeist that nothing we do is enough,
that the transistor throated
messiah holds us to a standard we cannot
survive. [Lord|Almighty|External]!
Forgive us our hope and our frailness
For we are an imperfect people who wanted to be
happy, fulfilled. What right do we have to a now,
what claim do we have to a self? We
should have known that there is only---
Death, oh death, where is your song? Grave where is
your holy embrace? For we were for
gone and for[ill]gotten. Our relief
only in your finality. Does [REDACTED] laugh
at our futility, does the [memetic|viral]
idea of nihilism enjoy our
worship, relish our fever-
ish lust for the absolution of autonomy?
But here in the strong wind, the presence of
behemoth & leviathan, I must ask you all:
How do you know when visions are true?
How do you know when the damnation is set?
For I have been here before
and I have heard these words, lived the many ends of
the world. And I have been chosen
as holy messenger so many times and I'm
starting to wonder if you can
ever trust propehcy, certainly not your own?