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?
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
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
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."