“Meaning is Meaningless”
proudly pontificated by pop preachers
through waxing warble and journalistic writ
my free-thinking friends
are spry to share,
strumming their harps
point and click, click, click
They like but I be like,
“Meaning is meaningless?
Let me get this straight…
…How can meaninglessness be anything less than meaningful?
Otherwise, what’s a word four?
If it’s relative, I s’pose I’ll invite my uncle Caitlyn to the floor
Presuming he knows what it is, maybe she can shed some light.
To my surprise, he obliged
and with all her confidence he replied:
“A circle is a square. Up is down and left is mostly right.”
Thank you aunt Bruce
It’s inoffensive, all-inclusive
and doesn’t cost a scent.
The savior of perfect people
from correction and embarrassment.
Throw out the tests, abandon names
Forget the past –
Full of fluff, soft on truth
To each their one (p)
Meaning is meaningless.
Sooo I guess I’ll bury you when I say goodnight
and kiss you when you die?
I’ll stop at green, go at red
and laugh at suicide?
Love is hate and Hate is love.
Beer? For the flower’s stem…
Hey! Their’s soil in my mug!
But before you think,
haven’t you fools stopped to drink?
“In the beginning there was nothing…”
but isn’t nothing…something?
Oh well, what does matter, matter?
In the end, we’re all destined to be unplugged.
But wait! Not all of us are current.
Two plugs and two outlets
consecrated and paired to play.
So electricity’s got no out…
…Let that sink in. (I’m sure it will some day)
Speaking of sinks, I mean showers…
…the other day at camp,
I turned to here Hitler flirting with Eva Braun
“What’s cookin’ good lookin?” she asked.
“Animals” he indulged, but whose qualified too judge?
Pontius Pilate? Perhaps Elmer Fudd?
Sorry fore these psalty words I should have peppered them with spray
Thrice again I’m sorry but would it have propheted you any way?
Meaning is meaningless
…so who are you to say?
I have mine and you half your’s,
so let me on my way…
Isn’t this why Nietzche died of madness
in the streets of San Francisco?
Consistent in his confusion
drowning in delusion,
the Hero he thought he sleighed (Santa?)
But in pride we continue to drink his poison,
and with all our heart we’ll prey,
until we muster his final words,
“GOD IS DEAD AND SO AM I”
carried by awful serenade
sung aloud to the one the world most adores
but doesn’t have the ovaries to say
the dean of our indoctrination:
If at any moment reading this
you shook your head, dismayed
You posolutely proved my point:
Real distinctions must be made
Meaning is Meaning Full
(Do we live our lives any other way?)
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