dutch light

there is something obscenely foreign
in the familiar--
not an immediate sensation
but one which comes and goes
in little fits of selfish
exhibition
and leaves its smear
on my brain
with no consideration
for the thoughts i'm
already obligated to entertain

not a stranger, but an unwelcome visitor,
a curmudgeonly uncle,
a guest, a friend, an acquaintance--
i know him well
he is a constant reminder
that life is useless
and ultimately devoid of meaning
it's the illusion that by
keeping ostensibly busy
investing or indulging
typical vices
championed by the human collective
we are nurturing some arbitrary
sense of purpose
there are times, though,
when these distractions become
routine and we are forced to realize
the vulgar nature in their lack of nature
their lack of order
the lack of order in the world
at large
and it's in these rare and fleeting moments
that we can see
clearly
the quirks in the mundane
the automatic response
deconstructed
eviscerated and systematically flayed open
cut down the middle
and pinned at its sides
it is in these moments
that we realize just how fucking
lost we've allowed ourselves to become
in ourselves and everything else

it's a fucking sham
never forget: you're a ticking time-bomb
masquerading as flesh and blood
behind the smoke screen
is another smoke screen
is another smoke screen
is another smoke screen
its initial appeal, its shimmering view of paradise,
turns to filth, wilts and rots,
so suddenly and
slips from your fingers
and disappears
like friends and the sanctity of familiar places.