“Go fuck yourself, you idiot!”
Reads the billboard, hovering above the plains
“Your words are all paper thin, and you can only sing in staccato
Trying to make meaning out of language is like attempting to build the Taj Mahal out of Play-Doh”
So I went home and wrote a poem that contained only silence
And it won every award all around the world
And the government spent a billion dollars to airdrop papers with my name on it above the Middle East
But… no one there could read it
All they did was scream at the sky
And they all marched home singing Na-na-na-na to fill the hole in their chest where words
are supposed to go.
But to me, it just sounded like a murmur, birds laughing in trees
So I returned to my business, living like an animal trying to bite its tail
Hunting for instrumental rock records and waiting for the silence at the end
Because speaking is just a way to communicate
And I have no one to talk to
And words are just noise wearing fancy clothes anyway
So I’m dedicating poems to the empty space in bags of chips
And the oxygen in a corpse’s lungs
As it floats atop a flood
And the space between each guitar string
And I only listen to gibberish and gobbledygook
Sung by people across oceans and decades
Who sing like angels and drink like demons
Because
Written on the walls of this nuclear bunker are the words “god is a question mark”
So I’ve devoted my life to confusion
