for the love of Nietzsche | strange fruit
04/07/2022
wanna know what happens when
you put a poet and a psychologist
in a blender? you get: incendiary wit;
interwoven conversations of gender and genre;
fusions of form and function; symphonic harmony
which almost seems to rot the rind. it’s so good
it may as well be a whole new genesis of craft:
the synthesis of the chemical and technical
with that which is completely of its own design;
divine in the sense that it has to answer and prove
itself to know one, but is so viscerally and unanimously
understood by all—even the most emotionally unintelligent.
you see, what really happens when you combine
a poet and a psychologist is this: you get: a psychologist
who spends their day constructing mirrors for others
to look within; a poet who spend all day looking within.
the psychologist—(constructing)—spends the day feigning
being the same person as the poet (who is looking).
but the psychologist simply abhors the thought of looking.
ironically, it’s because they so fundamentally understand
all of the nuances behind the moral-neurological wrongs
written into the fabric of our human being—whereas
the poet also understands, but their understanding
isn’t simply a stagnant or finite thing. you see:
the poet’s understanding of the psychosomatic is too infinite
for the psychologist to even begin to empathize with.
(that’s why the blender is needed.) both need to fuse with
the other to realize just how unlike each other they are.
so, when you put a psychologist and poet in a blender,
you might just get the most evocative (simulated) conversations—
music playlists; text messages; audio messages;
things lost in digital translation—you’ve ever fuckin’ read.
you’ll also get delusional dreams reminiscent of Descartes;
a pure evil fuckin’ demon; a Hegelian Dialectic headache;
the abacus of Leucippus and Democritus in your psyche;
integral knowledge from Nietzsche that God is in fact dead.
but weren’t you morally better—and psychologically simpler—
before you had this knowledge that not somehow feels
preordained; privileged; and miserable to now hold in head?
[(you can’t un-feel or unlearn it, darling. I’m not sorry.)
sorry you had a crush on me? I was naturally oblivious—
as you made feel like shit.
what kind of Mean Girls shit is that???]
I’m convinced you were a psychic attack just as much
as I’m convinced you were the best lesson to happen
to me at this fixture within my wisdom; this precise
ecosystem of healing folded into my microbiome-matrix.
I really have you to thank: for the exposures to Sartre;
Kierkegaard, Nietzsche; Dreamer Isioma; Beverly Copeland….
[Omar Apollo, etc. etc., at this point because while these things provided
temporary solidarity, they in all actuality were such a detraction-
distraction from actually getting to the whole of you…
(at this point I wonder why we never explored Samuel Beckett…)]
it’s truly a shame we never got to play the saxophone together.
although, from my accrued wisdom, it would’ve been discordant.
I can’t—or don’t want to—imagine how you would’ve bored me.
(once again, I’m sorry, but I’m so not sorry for my honesty.)
once again, thank you: for all you taught me about lust
and love by giving me none of those things; for blocking
and running away from me when you could’ve been the key.
but I’m finding: keys truly meant to unlock you don’t run away.
once again, thank you: for being too intimidated; convincing
yourself you weren’t who I was looking for; we desired discordance.
I hope you find someone who lets you get away with not
looking. maybe it’ll be over something ironic. say, stargazing?
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