poetry

M[od][us] v[i]v[end]i (I)

He identified strongly with hearts for some

reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-

ortant, was the love they re-

presented every time he saw or touched one.

Second, his heart was white in-

stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by

any means: he never meant that harm that

black cruelly re-

presents in the tongues we kiss and

speak with.

Although black – in other re-

spects – he identified with strongly,

he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.

So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.

Third, he felt that maybe love

was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both

described itself naturally and de-

scribed itself using itself to de-

scribe its very entity.

Fourth, he now needed a mod-

us v-

i-

vend-

i

so much, he was prepared to sub-

sum-

e in electronic life, maintain

his being only in that false

world he realised had been

assigned him long ago, and reach plac-

id-

[under]

lying agreement to fake what was left

of life:

for what was life if not an act-

ing profession?

 

As that terrible man so long ago said:

“The art of communication

doesn’t lie in saying what you believe

but in believing what

you say.”  Hey-ho.  Ho-ho.

 

And he would now communicate this way,

and the modus vivendi would be lies

all the time, and reality

would never quite match the truth, and the

truth – like him, like the love he would

no longer wear as a badge of collect-

i-

ve c-

our-

age – would diss-

i-

pat-

e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego

not sex.

 

And love your memories dear people: for they’re all

we have

left.

 

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