Perfect Loss

I play to lose; that's what I seek. You may not understand, coming from a mainstream view of this so-called winning. Winning isn’t everything. Winning doesn’t bring everyone joy. Winning is whining.
I play to lose; that’s what I seek: a perfect loss. A perfect loss – it’s the perfect way to end your wins. It’s the perfect way to end your life. It’s the perfect way to abort to terminate to expire to cease to finish to halt to conclude. It’s the perfect way to lose.

I Was

I was
the forerunner to your
every unforgivable whim
in view of the masses.

I was
discouraged, hopeless; your
empty words fell on
dozing ears
as the guns of
Bristol awoke from
their deep slumber
enticed by the stars in
the heavens.

I was
reborn under the
Bristol moon
untouched by your
scathing words, your
despicable looks.


Sitting here, in a
library ‘cubicle’
wondering what
to write about today.

I look up to see
‘John Milton is a twat’
and I imagine
he’s really a twat.

Paradise Lost sucked,
Paradise Regained sucked.
What was Blake thinking?
John Milton is a twat.

Mortal Grasp

She died lonely,
it was unfair.

Surrounded by people,
yet dying alone.

We cried for her.

Cried for her loneliness
in the distant darkness
just out of our
mortal grasp.

We cried out of necessity.

We’ll see her again
soon enough;
we all die alone.

Set the Trend, Pig

Look on the news, it’s swine flu in New York. Look it up on Google, I’m not lying. Soon enough we’ll all get that virus.
I’m so jealous of the first bro to get swine. To be the first to spread the trend? I’d jump on that train first before yall.
Soon it’ll be ‘cool’ for you to have swine. The ones that don’t have swine would be ‘uncool’ and be ‘losers’.
People can call us ‘pigsters’ but we’ll all hate that term.
Damn, I wish I was the first altbro to get swine yall.

“Georges Poulet, Phenomenology of Reading”

When I
am absorbed in reading,
a second self
takes over,
a self which thinks and feels for me.

Withdrawn in some recess of myself, do I
then silently witness this dispossession?

Do I
derive from it
some comfort or, on the contrary,
a kind of anguish?

However that may be,
someone else holds
the center of the stage,
and the question which imposes itself, which I
am absolutely obliged to ask myself
is this: “Who
is the usurper who occupies the forefront? What
is this mind who all alone by himself fills my consciousness
and who, when I say I,
is indeed that I?