Out there,

wandering the pitch black badlands,

of demonic jazz improvisation,

I stumbled on a clue,

which led me to the revelation,

that my uniquely fucked up thing,

was not just my thing after all,

but a shared thing.


So now I have a label,

and fellow sufferers,

and a whole taxonomy

of facile terms and acronyms

to hang off it.


Like decorating a grotesque Christmas tree,

with banana skins,

used condoms,

and eyeballs.


Armed with this new information,

I can write about it at length,

I can step outside it,

I can rationalise it,

I can learn self hypnosis,

to kid myself

that black is white,

that up is down,

that what matters does not matter,

that what cannot be ignored can be ignored.


Hell, I can even tell myself that I’m a round peg after all.


Yet somehow,

in spite of all this,

and betrayed by the unmistakable stench

of a kind of cosmic cruelty

with which I’ve had to become most intimately acquainted,

it is precisely as hard to live with now,

as it always was,

back when I was completely ignorant about it.


Some sufferings are circular,



meant to be.


In such a predicament,

all one can really do,

is tread water,

until their legs get tired.


4 thoughts on “Circular

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