markbousfield

A BUDDHA OF EVERYTHING; OR NOTHING

The sun only becomes warming as a warning, an illusion in the room where I equally find a tightrope of blonde hair and a path to the softest of sins, of those committed in silence, not a breath between us, in the wild hills where I once did stride with endeavour, a place so unreal that I could walk and fart and covet, be amazed by the gentile unreality of it all, the inevitable and exultant void, the enviable void. I prayed to it as my weary joints and bones can testify, tromping with sprirted step after step, tumbling in knee high reeds and weeds and smoke funnelling from my cigarette rolled in paper skin.

These smells and tastes of pleasure, those deserving of temperatures in my spectacular vernacular emptiness, one I have cultivated and achieved only through years upon years of trained nihilism, self doubt, conflict, cowardice, self belief, consternation, concentration, flagellation, poisoning, recovering and relief. A suffragette in only my wildest dreams, a trick of the dust placed at random by tectonics moving over centuries, of gravity and his pulling tides dancing nimbly across the wan jives of old man moon, his brightest and best tap shoes dulled in leather, transcended to everything, which is nothingness apparently, Buddha of everything, of something, maybe nothing after all, of sound and energy, Buddha, ha, whatever; dirty, naughty Buddha!