A Dinner Party.
After long loneliness solitude gives way to society.
The individual is drowned out by the crowd.
Reason is crushed by ignorance.
I can only comment that perhaps it's better that way.
I reason things to thoroughly.
I have got to the point of wisdom where I know it is more wise to be
stupid.
However cannot be so.
I'll lobotomize myself with friends.

A brief self reflection.
Jeans fit well, a black shirt and gelled hair.
I smell of sex, I taste sex upon each pint glass I finish.
Birth strangled babies glittering on egg shell morality,
Such pretty patterns on those thongs.

A swish of long hair and a metaphor brushes against a sigh.
Rose red cheeks with a kiss, I'm the steak fork she's the steak.
I need something to cut, to pierce, to penetrate.
Razor to the wrist. Eye to eye, bulging out of socket.
Who needs self respect.
I'm an animal.
I want to be a fucking animal that doesn't hate itself.
I want to be a dog.
I want to be a Christian.

I want to be drunk.
I want to forget everything.
At least one I can achieve.

She smiles at me, teeth stained with lip stick.
She's a hamburger and doesn't notice.
No worse, she does notice.
She is meat and knows it.
She's there to be tasted, to be taken with a smile and a witty remark.
Feminism smothered by champagne.
To be grabbed up in two hands, laid on a bed and fucked.
Such words fit the occasion.
Sound,
Feeling
Intelligence all seem to meld into a great nihilistic diagram of futility.

That's not the way to think James.
You're a poet James.
A kiss pushes all that thinking away.
Deaden the brain, I'm just warm meat as well.
Two hamburgers upon the grill of reality.
We move together and blend juices.

White bed.
Dirty sheets.
Broken minds.
Ts Elliot was better then me.
Richard Dawkins must be ignored.
With this I finish and pull out and look at her sleeping.
Eyes closed, mind closed.
I don't hate her.
I envy her.
That dead eyed stare into herself.
She can appreciate beauty.
Enjoy relationships.
Not fully understand absurdity.
No reflection, no analysis of self.
She's a poet, but writes poems about falling lotus petals through the
trees.
Or summer days slinking behind the black abyss of night.

Just a blissful dream of life for her.
Illustrated in language.
A marriage.
A fuck.
Then death, meat rotting in a grave. Unaware of itself, just as in life.
I walk outside, lights mingle with lights.
People talk. I'm silent.
I'm a hamburger upon the grill of reality.
I'm with Dawkins upon the Barbeque.
Roast me alive, decay me down.
Funny how the greatest men in history are all dead.
Intelligent hamburgers, we sit and talk of how we're greater then meat.
Meat swearing not to be so.
The air denying it's composition.
Form refusing to set into shape.
A cow in a larger field with no mirrors for ultimate self reflection.
I want to lay down with that girl and sleep forever.
In a waking dream.

Wisdom gets you to the same place as stupidity in the end.