Seven Solitudes
Define yourself and your reception:
All else is stone cold deception.
Shrug and feel them slip away:
Pleasure now was a burden yesterday.
— Did you think I’d hold it all forever?
A man’s hands can only hold so much.
I could hold you all aloft, I know.
The mud would eat me whole.
Every inch I lose to time is gone for good;
I’ve lost a lot — Never has
So much been felt in twenty-five years.
Never has what remains been so important.
Pop and drop it. Better with the only company
Worth having.
Don’t halve, but double it.
Mistakes were made, and it would be a crime to hide it.
Kindness. Too often said, too often spent.
I’ll pick up the bill. After all, I can afford it.
I’ve always had more to spare, and always will.
When I’m dead, and parts of me live long
On the tongue taking MDMA for the first time,
I’ll be as rich then as I’ve ever been.
Ever — never — always — what better place to live?
Travel all you like: when heaven is where you are —
Then we can talk. Then you will have my respect.
Curious. Kindness made me crooked.
You only need to see my fingers, gnarled.
The heavy hand weighs the most.
Pause for a minute and resume the work.
Pick the poor and pierce the pretence:
Ask yourself, “Do I have what I deserve?”
No doubt the first answer will be,
“I deserve so much more” —
— If you’re half the man I thought you were,
One day — in death — you may realise
The truth:
“I don’t deserve what I have.”
Lazy spirit, bloated stomach, bad attitude, languid mind:
You’re everything I hoped I’d never find.
I meant to write this sooner — 24 wasn’t soon enough —
But I let you prove yourself. That you did.
You lied, you lazy — You cried, at least I hope:
If ever a man should sink deep in pleasureless dope,
You are that man — but “man” is a word you don’t deserve —
And you will grow into your father. I can think of nothing crueller.
I have always said that a man’s life is his responsibility,
And that his father’s shadow should push him further into his own light.
— You might as well be his clone.
And I — I’m at my best when I’m alone.
Alone. A unity of mind, body and ecstasy.
Who else could understand each nuance,
Every triumph, every struggle and resolution?
When every decision is a celebration,
Is it any wonder I spurn you, who cannot learn the syntax?
I write poetry for the finest minds
In my life and in my writing.
You cannot even hold the book.
Some things are too heavy for the feeble.
It’s over, man: I am the overman.
Seven solitudes: the cold and the codeine.
The surname: never her name.
The man alone:
It was naïve of me to think that any other had the answer
(Or could even understand the question).
It was precious, though not pathetic:
Quite natural when you create, to want others to share
In the heights that you’ve ascended.
But it was wrong, wrong, wrong — an error of the
Worst kind, because self-destructive —
To taper output to reception.
There was no other possibility, my friend;
It is not your fault that no one yet exists to see the value in the man beyond value.
Your only duty is to do what you alone can.
The poverty of the world does not temper genius…
It enriches it.
And you, Apollo, must foster it.
You must be it.
So nota bene and embrace the solitude:
The greater the talent, the deeper the valley —
The deeper the valley, the higher the peak —
The higher the peak, the more profound the message —
The message:
You already have that which you seek.
