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What the Dickens?

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Ideas bounce around like a pinball machine

Random racking up points with each bumper hit

Some dude is talking so much

And the strange girl is spitting out responses like a broken sprinkler head

What are we doing?
Seriously

What the hell are we doing?

Flexing our ass muscles

We practice the fine art of philosophizing on the nature of man

And what this book says about that nature

AKA bullshitting

If only I had read these pop words

I too could look at them through a micro-macro-scope

The all-encompassing power of consciousness

To take nothing, and make it into something

It's not that this art is unworthy

Only that it's like any other form of art

It's beautiful, majestic, glorious.

Yet I feel fake writing that last line

Why?

Could it be my own self-consciousness

The rejection of things that reinforce my sense of inferiority?

Whatever the Freudjungoviological analysizing of the situation may be

It doesn't change the fact that I really just don't care

Dickens, may I ask you a question?

When you wrote Hard Times,

Did you picture a bunch of 150-year-old kids sitting in a circle

Staring awkwardly at each other and dissecting your book

Poking, prodding, squeezing the juice out of it

In an attempt to sound smart

And receive an “A” in the very society you wrote about?
Irony is the greatest form of art

It is beautiful, majestic, glorious.


In the words of a one Mr. Hemingway on his fairly unknown book,
The Old Man and the Sea
,

"There isn’t any symbolism. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The sharks are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit. What goes beyond is what you see beyond when you know."

Comments (1)

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I like this Thx

wickedwahine_69
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