jia shuixing


Lesser Autopsychograpy - Poem by jia shuixing

everything is context but what is context and there you go
decades stuck inside your own neuronal flow
(all the while quietly self-unmaking)
occasionally popping out for a look at shit
relocating selves for a short-lived break
raped by love, with almost no relief in cake
eaten by the earthy blind unseen self-split
eternally recurring to the same mistake
even if to change was the very point




ive never tried crystal meth
'the balding hair that the grave cave drank'
(tapping into the anger for a wank)
but i think ill be good at death

after everything everyone gave

(which i forget)

after the balding hair that the grave cave spat,

im still waiting to be dressed


if i confessed


it wouldnt be enough to fill an anthropic blog
there wouldnt even be a list of sorrows
the details would be the story


the details are as follows:





at age zero i shattered the neighbour's glass
at age 100 i got fucked up the ass
and in between i worried about stars
i cry when the robots land on mars
i cry when precious things perish for lack of want
I think i've wept for zion on the banks

i've never minded using my empty soul as bait

i cry whenever i meet a real i did not create


and i dont think ive ever been sorry

i dont think ive ever not been aware


for all the flayed culture
for all the accidental meditation
for all the hardearned silly stunts
for all the useless computation
i have never laid a truth bare
(that would require nature)
(that would require being awake beyond thought, being blind)
(a truth is a relationship between man and crap)
and i've spent too long inside my mind
(a context is an almost biological thing, it's existence taking a nap)


now the mind bites back
now it asserts itself as the force that

as the force that







cure the soul by means of the senses
as oscar wilde said
except the senses are put on hold
except there's nothing left untold

and except whatever it is that makes me who i aint is still the only thing that's there
and im still supposed to thank the gods for that

im sure a time will come
im sure a person will come

then between the myth of pair bonding and the institution of marriage
I will have mastered the aches

yes. and I have yet to be frank
I have yet to digest a single day

but i think ill be good at death
i think i'll really savour that one last breath
and its decay
as tends to be the rule, i'll be glad to make way
and i think ill say, so long, fools, friends,
this was a massive blunder
be happy that i'm going under
- and thanks!


I envy no one alive

or dead

one of the perks of being damaged
one of the perks of being bad?


but I think i've managed


I think this is exactly where it's at






and I cant bring myself to revise
yet
no yet! I cant bring myself to own it
the rhythm has taken over
and it's almost already gone
maybe in a few more years I'll meet again
maybe i'll spend my time living
maybe i'll have to postpone it
maybe i'll keep using then as cover
or maybe i'm stuck
everything is context but what is context and then it's over
nothing lies around the warp
there's no in or out, there's only whatever we walk between
which should not hurt or trap you but to me is like a comet to the face
and being the only thing that stands
(and given that I don't know people and have to make do with place)



i guess for all the saying
it really doesn't matter what I say
i've spent a lifetime 多 learning how to play
but unlike with babies,
cubs,
and other mammals,
the only game was to hold back

I don't think i've ever wanted

is that why I needed the tetrahedrons?
Is that why continental thought and the bifurcation set?
Is that why I was so struck by dissipation?
Is that why people go look for, or ignore, the dao?
Is that why they wear the flannels?
Is that all?







(at least it rhymes from time to time)
(at least it's something small and disposable that I can call mine)
it's like a stolen airline blanket
in that you use it to show off and cover your eyes from the void
and use it to make the day go by and -
it's freakazoid! it's the dictatorship of little pleasures
and farewell - time off? - to interrogative pronouns
it's the measure of a man, together with her frowns
it's a thing vomited to keep
a wager that in future one can look back at it
it's the earnest struggle against entropy
in tiny manageable doses
hedging every conceivable loss
it's a bit like the decision to finally start to floss
it's the endless series of gestures and poses that beg for empathy and to be seen
it's what I walk between
and it's no longer all i've got
it's the unfathomable mysteries of the teapot
it's an incantation to call the living to life
it's the silent recognition of the necessity of strife
it's a placeholder for the will to power
it's the ability to skip a shower
it's the stirrings of the desire not to relax
it's five tons of flax
it's the music that you dive into as a replacement for others
and then it's shared

it's that rarest moment when you you have the bothers but you you're not scared

Topic(s) of this poem: psychological, self reflection , writing


Poet's Notes about The Poem

spring festival in china, while trying to unlock years of tricky absence of self

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Poem Edited: Sunday, October 4, 2015


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