Bourgeois Men
The bourgeois expects a woman to be as ‘he’ wants, the seducer gives her what ’she’ wants; the lover wants her to be all that she can be, as ’she’ wants.
A Life of Chasing
If we don’t spend our lives chasing metal, then we spend it chasing paper. If we are not chasing paper, then we are chasing flesh; if we are not chasing flesh neither, then we are dead or on our imminent way.
Wife
How ‘wifey’ is a wife? Or is a mistress more of a wife than your wife? The wife is more akin to a mother, a substitute mother, a woman who cleans, cooks and buys your clothes for you. The only difference between your wife and mother is that the former you occasionally (once every blue moon) treat like a mistress.
Trust and Blame
It is perhaps easier to trust somebody else because you can blame them; but when you make that near impossible step of trusting yourself, who have you to blame?
Sonnet #2
Quel est l’amour?
She knocks, and he opens the door.
She enters, tip toed or treading,
The former he welcomes, the latter he’s dreading.
What is love, people?
Her glimpse’s worthy enough to turn him simple.
They touch, kiss, and ”’bout time” together they sing,
With emotional scruples, joy they bring.
¿Qué es amor?
She offers herself, he leads her to the fore.
Trampled and romped by their selfless desire;
They burn their selfs and together jump into the fire.
The world applauds as it witnesses this miraculous relation;
Eros, sitting humbly, smiles proudly at his mischevious creation.
Philosopher’s Difference
It is not that philosophers choose, or want, to be ‘different’; more often than not it is that they are allergic, or rather, immune to being ‘the same’.
The philosopher
The philosopher is permanently in love. Like a lover who waits by the phone for the beloved to call; the philosopher waits by nature’s side for her to call, for her to nourish him with her sweet voice that makes itself manifest in the turbulent poetry that is thinking. To put his mind to rest through the poetic chaos that is thought. The philosopher speaks the language of nature (physis): communicates with nature herself at every instant and every thought – he lives and breathes physis.
Hope
Hope is a peculiar thing; it is almost akin to a mental, viral infection of reason. It squeezes itself in a little space created by reason, a place made manifest by uncertainty and improbability. In that little space it hatches, by making certainty an uncertain possibility. If left to expand, its limits will devour the realms of impossibility, making the impossible a certain possibility, and eventually bordering faith: the impossible certainty.
Hope, when rightly accommodated, becomes an affable and holy means of engagement; a necessary viral infection.
Sonnet #1
Bite at the rhythm of trifled distress
Chew humbly and honestly in its stress,
Hold your arms wide and embrace the mess,
Allow it to burn and soothe your ruined chest.
The songs of sorrow equal those of joy,
One ear pays homage, the other plays coy.
Words and thoughts know very well the feelings they deploy,
These sweet tears and tiresome smiles are their cold jest.
An exchange of ‘ands’ and ‘ifs’ becomes the repetition,
Next is the taste of our very own hate’s sedition.
Breathe in soothingly the ‘joie de vivre’ of thoughtful distinction,
And like a bird, build your life, your wife and your nest.
In anticipation await the full-stop that is death,
So that the nowhere-to-run, becomes the running-towards with the last breath.
Faith
Nobody has faith in something because it is true; it is true because they have faith in it.
