Jack Kerouac told me to love my life out
over living it, because this is beat.
i said okay, but was unsure
if i was capable of what he advocated.
Ginsberg howled, Kerouac went on the road, & Cassady just died.
bop whop de doo bop, bop bang boo.
Bang! my neighbour is renovating his house
it's looking immensely zen
he is a vegetarian
he is the health minister anyway
his wife could be an Okinawan hermit
she eats so much tofu
how long will they live? or love?
they have two daughters.
both are alive.
what is living?
it is an everlasting job.
not a vocation but an occupation.
with self, & power & glory & fame.
i accuse you, you are materialistic.
we are all bourgeois now, you smile.
well this living is too tiring
& fatigue beckons, a yoo-hoo-hoo.
nope, we're beat, i smile back.
will you throw me a lifejacket, a lifebelt, a lifesaver, a life?
because people always telling me to get one.
& then i say
i don't have one.
& i am content.
but there is nothing inside me.
i am quite hollow.
nope no contents, just a vacuum,
just a husk, or a drum that goes
"this. is beat.
live your lives out? naw, love your lives out."
nearly a sure thing, monsieur K,
but we'll have to wait till Valentine's day.
-maybe hecate. 27th january 2006.
a/n: to be honest, i myself can't tell if i like this one or not.