Tales Of The Euphoric Ego

‘The euphoric ego must be challenged,’ I told myself determinedly. ‘We must hold fast and challenge it to the very best of our ability…’ Fine words of course but I have ever been one for fine words – fine words drip from my tongue like saliva from the mouth of a ravening wolf. Fine words drip fluently from my tongue that the unclean discharge that flows from a suppurating and badly infected sore. ‘Fine words, fine words, fine words indeed…’ I tell myself absentmindedly, but I have already forgotten the point of my ramblings. Not that ramblings need to have a point of course – there’s nothing like a point for spoiling a good ramble, after all.

 

Some of us prefer to live in the centre of things whilst others would rather dwell in the odd places, the places that are not places at all. Some of us prefer to hang out in the cracks or the world, in the interstices, if I may put it like that. Some of us prefer to inhabit the interstitial spaces. What a love I have for the interstitial spaces of this world! What poetry I could write about them, if only I were not so crippled by fatigue. What poetry, what splendid poetry I could write. When I think about this poetry it makes me sad; it makes me sad because I know I will probably never write it. I shall almost certainly never write it. My limbs feel as if they’re made of lead and my feet are like twin blocks of cement that I have to drag around with me. To exist at all seems like a terrible effort and I have quite forgotten what the point of it is anyway. Perhaps there is no point – who knows?

 

Sometimes if you stay very still and listen very carefully you can hear the poetry of life. What a wonderful thing – to hear the poetry of life! I’m doing that right now. I’m listening out for the poetry of life. That’s something I like to do. I’m not getting very far however because wherever I go there are gobshytes talking in loud voices. Gobshytes love talking in loud voices, don’t they? They love it so much. Perhaps you think I’m being mean when I say that. Perhaps you think that I’m being judgemental? I’m not though. I’m not being in the least bit judgemental – I’m simply stating a fact. Who can deny that gobshytes love talking in loud voices? What sort of gobshyte would you be if you didn’t love talking in a loud voice? You’d be a pretty poor sort of gobshyte in that case. You’d be a pretty damn poor excuse for a gobshyte and that’s the answer to that question!

 

Sometimes if you stay very still and listen very carefully you can hear the poetry of the gobshytes! Gobshytes are full of poetry, they just don’t know it. It’s inadvertent poetry that we’re talking about here you see. They certainly don’t mean to be poetical. That goes without saying, surely? Can you imagine being a gobshyte and thinking to yourself, “I think I’ll come out with something poetical now – I’m done talking shit…”? That’s not their intention at all of course and it never will be. Their intention is to mouth off, regardless of whether they’ve got something worthwhile to say not. And that’s an important point to focus on because if they waited until they did have something worthwhile to say than they would never say anything! It would be as if they had taken a vow of silence in that case…

 

Nobody places much stock in the poetry of gobshytes. Nobody values it. Nobody gives it much credence. “Surely there can’t be such a thing?’ they say, “that would be like talking about the poetry of non-poetry or talking about the poetry of ugliness. It would be like talking about the poetry of gross and disgusting things. ‘The euphoric ego must be challenged, the euphoric ego must be challenged…’ I remind myself. That old ego must be challenged before it goes euphoriating over everything! Before it goes euphoriating over everything in sight, like the dirty filthy old bastard that it is. Because what’s  what it does. There’s a whole world going on out there you know. Full of bastards as it might be. Full of gobshytes as it might be. A whole world – just imagine that! Only we can’t imagine it. We can’t imagine it and that’s the whole point. We can only stay quiet and listen to the poetry of it. If we are able to hear, that is. If we’re not too busy talking our heads off. If we’re not too busy talking shyte, which we probably are…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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