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,
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.
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.