poetry

Free willingness

If everything is predictable, and even when I fuck

you in passionate embrace, someone somewhere

knew – before I even thought of doing

so – that indeed the deed would surely take place

in some glorious disgracefulness or two, at around

half-past midnight on such and such a day of

desperate yearnings and

apparently freely chosen sex,

does this mean that everything is absolutely

predestined –

fated,

belated,

hated to a millimetre,

rated in points that measure our performance

and allow those clever bods to spy on every

movement?

Or does predictability simply indicate simplicity?

Does the fact that you know how I love a certain

person,

in a certain way too,

as much as I have loved almost

anything on earth (and in fact that would be quite

untrue of me to say: there is nothing I could ever

love any more

than

you … my night and day!) mean my predictability

trammells my path to such an extent that

when we choose to touch each other, there are

numbers that determine our choice?

Or can we ever, even now, say that when two

people fuck and love and kiss and hug and smile

and laugh, and come together and come apart,

and make each other happy and make each other sad,

every single step of the way is determined by

freedom-loving steps that have come before:

liberty

bodice gorgeously

ripped from gorgeous breast as the

strengths of these lovers are tested to the max?

Standard
poetry

Con[science]

Imagine, if you will, there were a

science of conscience.

That people could typify and studify

and stultify and

enclose and pro-

se-

worthily pro-

po-

sails of considered and

magnificent experiment

on sees

of die-

namic movement:

think how much dosh could be saved with

the cash that people would stop

spending on evil activity if one knew

exactly how to nudge fudgy people

into behaving themselves according

to less-

es and mores stipulated by organ-

ism-

sssss various.

And imagine you could define,

theoretically at least,

how reactions would cause

chemical splutte-

ring of hearted exp-

lesion in the con-

text – whether true or not – of com-

plex paper tombstone, written on reams

which only served to sound

the death-knells of all free will.

Standard