The Nihilist’s Delusion

Pardon my breaststroke
over oblivion,
but the undertow will take me
in time,
not with my eager acceptance, thank you,
but with mortal fatigue,
meanwhile your undead body
bloat-floats complacently
over oblivion,
coming eventually
to ashen shores
so you may make
ash angels
after having razed the world
and all of its myriad “illusions”,
attempting to delight in the
of the
joys to be had
rather than throwing yourselves
upon the pyres
and giving resolution
where your philosophy’s resolution is due.
You wish to beat us down
with the bones of the departed,
striking our hopes with a cruel
tattoo of
“You too! You too!”
as if we were not aware
that even headstones crumble,
given time;
and, yes, we know that
we ride determinism’s
compulsive waves
along the continuum of life—
it is no hollowing revelation.
Excuse me,
but while you numbly nestle
into the shoreline’s ashes
after you have smote all meaning
in your estimation,
and while you stubbornly mutter
your mantra of “malignant uselessness”,
I cannot help but note the irony
of your continued existence;
for while you champion mass extinction,
the puppet does not burn himself
to cinders
to rescue himself from the supposed
“conspiracy against the human race”.
Actions speak louder than words,
and you seem quite disingenuous
while you gleefully lob
Molotov cocktails into the sea
like bottled letters
meant to reach distant shores.
It is an ironic joke, you know—
the one about the
self-professed nihilist
who refuted his own thesis
by showing up
in person
for the book signing.
we are meat puppets
tangled up in our own strings,
but only you seem to be
high-strung about it.
Then again,
strumming other people’s
has always been lucrative,
even if money and ambition and
further the delusion
you decry.
Perhaps you should use the ashes
as eyeliner
for your late-term
Emo phase?
I will make my sand castles
as I please.
Somehow I doubt your
ash castles will last long,
and, besides, wet ash
burns the hands
which shape it,
yet will never clean the hands
of the hypocrisy
that stain them.


Loneliness is the
wounded howling of a soul
unheard beyond the dusty halls of a
necropolis heart;
it is the
silence and stillness of
downcast eyes,
of an inert tongue,
of a weary face
hidden by a sculptured mask
and veiled in the shadow
of an isolated crypt
while the bright world around it
moves and resounds and lives
beyond the deadness;
Loneliness means being
buried alive in your own
tight-lipped sarcophagus of
awkwardness, diffidence,
each faux pas a fatal blow
to your ego as you convince,
and convict,
yourself with a death sentence
of self-exile; embalming yourself in the
saltiness of your own self-loathing,
removing needful organs of
love and connection and friendship
in denial of your humanity
and setting them aside in canopic jars
while filling your body with
natron, that salty crystal remaining
after all of your tears have dried.
Loneliness is when you have
mummified yourself
with the ancient desert ritual
of crying yourself dry
in a tomb of your own making.
Loneliness is
being stuck between the
world of the living
and the land of the dead,
unable to pass on
and unwilling to return back,
your ka circling like a vulture,
yet never ascending,
never descending;
ever circling without end,
unwilling to abandon the corpse
and unwilling to find new lands
to call home.