Schopenhauer “Poem”
Posted on November 28, 2020 Leave a Comment
One morning I was reading Schopenhauer
Norris came raging towards me and yelled at me “Hey Schopenhauer what’s up with you”
I looked at him like a doctor looks at a Mad patient in his clinic
“Squeezing life through Schopenhauer’s ideas” I answered
I have to write a critical essay on Schopenhauer “world as will and idea”
He didn’t ask but I could see his curiosity to know what Schopenhauer writes
I started blabbing “It is not the sun but your eyes that sees the Sun” says Schopenhauer that the world exists because you exist”
Norris interrupted “Go get a life you and your German douchbag Schopenhauer, I am going take a shower and hit to work”
I sat there laughing when he left me holding Schopenhauer’s book in my hand
San Francisco Blues “Poem”
Posted on November 28, 2020 Leave a Comment
San Francisco O San Francisco what blues
I lived the San Francisco blues Others have only read it through Kerouac’s poetry
One time when I was in San Francisco I felt something
The Infinite possibilities lying ahead
The love of family living in California
The single young White Mom I saw in my San Francisco blues
She said “She is Drunk” I asked “why”
She replied, “I had just given a birth to a boy”
I congratulate her sharing our San Francisco blues
Now I understood why was she drunk along with her cousin
Her blues were looking for a guy to start family with
Without saying a word I understood she doesn’t want to raise her baby without a father
I wonder what became of her except her drunken blues and San Francisco?
What have became of San Francisco?
I heard homeless crisis are on the rise and it’s becoming more expensive to live there
But I never heard what became of that young white single Mom
Let me know know O San Francisco blues if you come across her
As she reminds of Virgin Mary somehow, she shared the same crime.
Black Friday Sales “Poem”
Posted on November 27, 2020 Leave a Comment
Consumers rushing to Malls and stores
Consume, consume and consume says the Marketing promotions
Even shop at Walden pond Is asking it’s members to buy and consume
As mankind has nothing left to do then to buy and sell?
Not a Farthing I have to spend except fresh poems and thoughts not for sale
If you sell poetry, good books I might buy it on my will not by slogans of Black Friday sales for Godsake
When I wake up I only think about what is essential for life
Why can’t we sell solitude? Some cheering thought provoking material to consume, some nature, some poetry, some love, some humanity
In vain I came home from all Black Friday sales at malls and stores
What do I need TV for? Do I need second hand experience? Is my life such a waste that I should sit by the TV? Or play video games?
Sell me your unread books, sell me your repressed thoughts, sell me your loneliness, sell me your fears, sell me a pure simple goodbye and I will buy it at any cost
Don’t sell me your branded Clothing, I prefer to be in rags
Sell me humanity and I will buy your Inhumanity
Simplify, simplify, simplify and simplify as Thoreau says
Mathematical truths “Poem”
Posted on November 26, 2020 Leave a Comment
Why can’t I doubt 2 and 2 makes 4? Why no one can prove their falsity? Is maths truly Godlike phenomenon?
I was reading Descartes meditations where he argued we cannot doubt numbers and mathematical proves just as we cannot doubt our hands and feet and a mind that thinks
What are numbers? Why I feel so insignificant when presented by a square always having equal sides?
Mathematical proofs are like fighting against a wall you cannot fight them but they will destroy you and nullify you.
The reason I hated maths since a kid was being unable to doubt it or to fight its truthfulness instead of subjugating to it like some Mad God commanding his whims ferociously
This is where man finds pleasure in arts and literature and imagination
In a dream 2 and 3 could be other than 5, in a dream like an empty space with no gravity it doesn’t matter if 2 and 2 makes 4
That is why I study philosophy it gives me the ability to doubt, to attack, to find pleasure in ripping of all which claims to be truthful or divine
My reason is my own rebellion against life itself which will eventually make me nonexistent which I already did by conscious endeavor of philosophy
How I wish to be a savage or animal not caring about anything but to live simply and die being born as a thinking being is a curse and worst crime God may have committed on mankind
I am a Murderer “Poem”
Posted on November 25, 2020 Leave a Comment
I am a Murderer, listen O world to my hideous crime.
I couldn’t bear my own self so I killed him. I killed my own self how cruel Ye must say
Life is all about selfhood as Iqbal says so I murdered my old self with no regrets
Philosophers only talk about deconstruction I not only read it, applied it but lived it
All that was feeble and weak and innocent is murdered without mercy
First I buried myself in a cemetery I was still not satisfied
So I went to my grave and snatch my corpse out and burn it saying “Lo! ye don’t even deserve to be buried.”
Ye superstitious, ye religious bigot, ye worshiper of culture and their norms, Ye must be turned into ashes
I am born again I can see this new self more stronger and audacious and daring and I say “human all too human” as Nietzsche dreamed modern man to be
I smashed the old self and invented a new self
Therefore, I am a murderer and hang me to death again O world if you dare so
Heathen “Poem”ً
Posted on November 24, 2020 Leave a Comment
She then said, Jesus Arrived 4000 years ago and I can’t bear a heathen talking to me
We argue on The existence of God and things get of our hands
I am a heathen beware O world
Why can’t people accept a person the way he or she is instead making him to agree with you
I am hopeless and disappointed at the honorable title “Heathen”
I must look for an atheist or a socialist girl
All religious people are judgmental and superstitious
For a heathen there are no women available in our modern world
Desoto Park In Tampa “Poem”
Posted on November 24, 2020 Leave a Comment
If you drive from Columbus 22nd street to East Tampa and goto 26th street take South you will reach Desoto Park
Desoto park in Tampa is like the end of the world
Nothing exists except endless oceans and a bright sky filled with stars
The air is so serene that an endless possibilities will open their doors
I sat there for some minutes and felt like ages have been past contemplating my action of just sitting by the sea
I ran with Vincent and take a slide through the whole park
I reckon to seas and to skies with a roar that I exist! “I exist” this “I” is awake like never before
Shallow “Poem”
Posted on November 24, 2020 Leave a Comment
I walked into the dark shallow soul of a handicapped man
I saw his dim smile and heard his rebellious screams
He was sitting on a wheelchair like a dead man alive
Nor able to push himself even a step further, unable to say a word, unable to defeat his old age and disease
I looked at the sky ask why God? Why do humans has to suffer so much?
No answer came but the hopelessness of the handicapped man
O human misery for heavens sake rescue thy child from all earthy sorrows and pains
New Girl “Poem”
Posted on November 22, 2020 Leave a Comment
Tonight I read poems of Don Juan by lord Byron again after a long time
I met a new girl today which sparks the need for recreation of passions
The new girl is always a mystery similar to any scientific endeavor
You want to study thoroughly, you want to have new theories and experiments to test
And see the results and learn more about characteristics of female genus
If it proved to be good then you will have something to tell and adapt
If it proved to be an addition to ones suffering then just endure O heart this new romanticism
Either I will write poems for her or either poems will be written to her in rancor
Nameless “Poem”
Posted on November 21, 2020 2 Comments
Cioran says “To renounce ones name is to be doomed to inactivity; to cling to it is to degrade oneself”
A Paradox is our identity in simple words “The trouble with being born”
Must we exist or express ourselves? Inquired Cioran again
Cioran is dead now then why do we share same sentiments of our own fragility
We labor from morning to night
What free time we have got we must spend it in bearing our own existence
Boredom and fatigue get the best of us
I read and write a few pages here and there to feel a sense of productivity
But I know at the end all that exists amounts to no significance
Why bother I ask? Why not end this life right away with a little courage?
Perhaps my heart wants to suffer a bit more and a bit more then the last bit
What is that one crucifixion compared to our present condition? questions Cioran again
In answer only Nihilism remains all else becomes void and meaningless
Hasich
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