Nearing Thirty-Five

Unoriginal like my prodigious race
celebrating copy-cat culture and enduring
relentless mutterings of my inner angsts;
Always desiring and never attempting,
With dreams held by both hands;
Clasped with the stubborness of a romantic.
Caressing the tender promises of high hopes.
Born out of studies of thick tomes that
Blister the eyes and produce the opiate
sunderings of wistful ambitions.

Trodden by the biting realities of economics
And the indolent genes of a world brought up in foolish hopes;
Tantalizing one-night stands
With vain-glorious bill-board texts and post-colonial discourses
Those that draw smiles on nutty academics
In their comfortable jargons of white light.

Unnerved and numbed at the same rhythmic
Perturbations nourished by fires in the bosom:
Ever remorseful of mediocre victories
Chanting with the dying an ode of elegiac alliterations.
Words, senseless and totalizing -
Meanings detached and yet slowly drifting into
recognizable patterns of delusions,
Begging for systematizing wholeness
crouching at the door of the phantasmagoric wisps of discarded cigarettes

Knocked bitterly bye the eternal and gnawing hunger pangs
And putting much faith in the much maligned apocaylpse
of a lost world and a matrix of reconfigured nexus
of new sensibilities and new habits.
Sustained by the image of the real and yet cavorting secretly with the longings of a new
horizon antithetical to conservative leanings lodged in the soul.

Conflicted and yet serene
Desiring and yet appeased
Revolting and pacifying the turmoil of the imposed platitudes
Meaningful and yet chaos personified in the hum-drum of postmodern epehemeras.

Oxymoronic, paradoxical and coherently brutal
At every suggestion of linearity
Morbidly divine or divinely morbid?
O! The dying values of my age!
Swallowed in the fleeting indictments of technopoly
Hyper-real and stochastic representations of the undead
May the last gasps of the cold earth sweep this industrial sewage of recycled
kaleidoscopes of what they call literary and cultural

Blistful religion of the ancients! Onomatopeic rants of a bygone age
Does faith abnegate itself at science's triumph?
Shall the spiritual be reduced to the mathematical?
Will poetry be cast aside as mere hiccups of the flatulent?
And history be nothing but the inevitable narrative that is to come?

Where is the sting of death?
Where is the liberty of light?
Where is the power of the text?

Am I then who I am supposed to be?
Or am I a singular positionality of consciousness?
A coherent ruse for the inevitable implosion of meaning's loss?

Another year of musings await, one filled with blind terror and fear
For now it is a localized pain of the abdomen, acute and undignified.
And the future is nothing but Faith in Transcendence
And whereof one cannot speak, there of one must be silent.