You see, the problem with you sitting down to read this piece, is that you are just wasting your time, dear sir. There is nothing to be seen, or done, or felt here, right at this very moment. If you think this is some new form of poetry, then no sir, this is no poem, and I am no poet. I, am just a hollow man, just like a hundred others. We all are but hollow men.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
We, the men of darkness, we wait in the cellars and dungeons, and underneath heap of fossilised skulls bearing the tooth mark of unknown ages. We all are but the hollow men, hollow to the deepest corners of our cranium cavity, with blood trickling between our legs. We are but the menstruating waste of our time, ready to be spat out by some overbearing frugal vagina.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
Our solace is in our knowledge of the final answer to bitter, bloody, vengeful love, a knowledge which tells us we are but humans, and we are lying, lying to our ancestors for drilling up our cranium cavity so we can find an empty space to hide our face, and cry and whimper in our dreams about the sunlight we stole from the Garden of Zeus.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
We walk alone, we are a generation of trekkers, each finding a route to our spirit, which lost its way in the Arab deserts, long before the Lawrence left his mark in the hundred sandy clitorises and left on a train back home, sipping away his tea of China. Oh, China, it makes me think, what if confusion and Confucion are but the same, the same like me, like the hollow men.
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
They call us sightless. We might be the unintelligible scum of the earth, but we, sirs, are not sightless. We are the hollow men, the evidences of time's carnal dance of death on the face of our Earth. Yes sirs, you heard it right, we belong to this Earth, to this soil, and you in your presumptuous little bunny holes, waiting to violate another lost Alice. This is our kingdom, this unhallowed muck, forever a sterile mother of ours, singing lullabies to her hundred dead children.
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
You see Mr. Eliot? We are your last hope. We, the hollow men, are your last chance at killing a new Frankenstein, a new Achilles, a new Saddam, a newer Grimreaper.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
But we are the hollow men, as you must remember, sirs. We are not beggars, we are the betrayers, and we betray not our brothers, but our masters, so come forth my brothers, this is our holy war, against these fine specimens of social lubricants and cultural moisturisers and saintly cunts. For all that is crude, and all that is sexy, and all that is a pile of shitty whisky, avenge our fathers and mothers, and avenge our lost souls, for all are but the hollow men, hollower than you'll ever be.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
