Existenz

I've been doing some reading of a critical analysis of existentialism, most recently, and, most latterly to that, sat down and found an old notepad lying about, which, in leafing through, led me to an old- four or five years now- poem, or written piece, that succinctly surmised the notion of  'Sartre-ian' existence. As follows!

The words escape me,
as they escape all,
who struggle in vain
to glorify
that singularity
when man at once
acknowledges
he is no longer
whom he once
thought he was,
and at that moment
cannot comprehend
whatever it is
he is to be.
 

INRI

Stuck in a room, stewing in sweat and alcohol, I was reminded of my ‘boxing day’; where, figuratively floored, I lay with my back pressed against a hard, wooden bench and the anguished face of Christ staring down at me in mocking consternation of my self-inflicted suffering. I conjured a narrative, evinced by our silent deadlock, on the subject of God and his self.

God gave his only son,

to be crucified,

to the world.

Saturn smiles,

watching,

Jupiter’s blood dripping

from his teeth;

and the weary giant,

Goliath,

Slits the sleeping

David’s throat.

The pain is excruciating:

the body lives

but the spirit dies-

the knell rings with the

echo of a church bell,

dwindling, it speaks:

“Suffer in the grip of Sin”

Splinters stick

underneath the fingernails-

it means nothing to me;

I am not there.

I am born soft,

so the hardness of

the wood

may bind to my

supple form.

I delve into the minutiae

and am lost

to the devil in the detail.

I adjoin to the

microcosm

and am given to the world.

Though I die,

I do so with no

displeasure-

for I am the

crucible

through which all

life passes

and I flood with

tears and happiness.