By Richard Mather
It’s weekend and the carriages are
flowing over with lurid laughter.
I picked up some bird in a bar and I
fucked her. We fucked in the park.
I’m seeing her again tomorrow.
Pigs, pricks, sluts, sadists, wankers –
We are pinned against the air,
suspended
above nothing.
And the train projects its tracks
over the wide gulf.
It’s a mystery how it’s done.
I cannot explain how wheels spin
through air, how tonnes of stuff
can move over nothing. It’s as if the world
really is solid after all.
And hasn’t nature made a mess
of everything?
The dry papery leaves blowing up
and down the platform,
the child’s snot and shit,
the mangled worm white with rain,
the wind that pushes you
this way and that.
Soon the rumour goes:
the rattle of paracetamol
in a nitrogen-filled bag.
Check the memory log.
Copying errors –
transmit message is lost.
I am dreaming grotesqueries –
after the algorithm, an outcome.
I am that outcome.
My nerve is losing.
I am the empty set, the void, a subset
of any set.
I am – to which nothing
belongs - & am included in everything.
This is my kind of omnipresence.
I have a subset: me again, the void itself.
I belong to every set,
which means I also belong to myself.
The universe is founded on the nothing.
In the last resort there is no theory.
And in the first resort, there is no beginning,
no genesis or ur-text, no being
or non-being, not even becoming.
There is not even the fact of the matter
with which to discuss our absence of theory.
And if thought is neither touched by being
nor non-being, well it is a wonder there is
thought at all.
Suffering is individual.
Anyone who tries to build
a community of sufferers
is a fool or a priest.
It was a long time ago
that I abandoned the search
for eternal truths and chose
instead to live in uncertainty.
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