Past Point

As a philosopher once said...

                                                                life is lived forwards

yet understood backwards,

      like the mirror image of

            the mirror image of

                                                                a man staring at the back of his head.

                                                                                casting shadows

like the manifold representation

of the same person,

                    stressing the past…past the point;


like reading from a cookbook

to a man who is hungry.


we are not fictions

                          formed ready

                                                                actions chosen

                                                                determine character,

like nodding with the crowd

                            as the outcast is lynched

                                                                            confusing the contradiction

                                                                                        for a synthesis


                                      like making a leap  

belief is the springboard,

                                            unlike reading the last page first.

the history of man

takes the man out of himself

                                                                understanding the past

                                                                              past reason itself

like a crab crawling sideways

                                clicking claws at progress

ignoring the question

(can the past present future?)

our history is brain lodged





like the bullet that makes most sense,

                                                                      it follows logically.


i am destiny

                        scythe-tongued harvester

                                                                              heads roll under the influence

                              sacrificing self

for the art of the                                     future

like being misunderstood

a mesh of cliché

                                    i am past morality.


i am the limit of my world                                                                             (i do not exist?)

                                                              infinite                     boundless

unable to step outside

                                                              because what really matters

                                                                                        is what we can only be silent about...

                                                  like the ancients tying tablets of lead

                                                              round the knees of gods

                                                                    fine-spun thread,

                                                the chain of causation has a chink.

now if Shakespeare and Byron possessed

  80,000 words in all

    the future genius-poet

      shall in every minute

        possess 80,000,000,000 words squared

like leasing life from exhaustion

      tripping off the tongue

        like drug-induced variations

          dissolving art into a new and paradoxical nirvana

like creating nothing

              I write nihil

                                                    on everything that has been done before.

the unconscious is structured as language

            trying to express

                      associated ties


                      like the paralysed monkey

sitting by the mirror

imagining the symbolic                                                               which now becomes real

like a silent movie,

images without sound

                        a burden,

            like atlas deceived

                                        becoming apparent in the balance.

At any street corner

the feeling of absurdity can strike any man

in the face,

like the punch line of a long-forgotten joke suddenly making sense

like the tramp quoting Hamlet,

crouching in the corner huddled in piss,

like a lack of oxygen

which sends you delirious

                                                                                          it’s not serious anymore

                                                                                          like a poster of Einstein’s

                                                                                          mocking tongue poked out.

Adam Picot