Kierkegaard’s poet?

Anime or Manga doesn’t  

appeal to me. It did when  

I was in my early 20s. 

Most video games bore me,  

it’s the usual fetch this,  

fetch that, fight him or her,  

go here or there. The ones  

which they design with a  

novelist’s eye are not quite 

there yet. It’s strange because 

I devoured them all with an  

appetite of a bodybuilder on  

his cheat day when I was  

in my teens. Mortal Kombat,  

GTA and even old Mario,  

crushing those poor mushrooms.  

Most books tire me. 

Why must I struggle with some 

postmodern madness? Plots 

within plots 

with unreliable narrators, 

fragmented, nonlinear,

they give me  

a migraine. So, this then, this  

apathy is my sorrow (if it  

can be called that) that I serve 

you with a glass of port  

and as ennui consumes me and  

the muted sounds of boredom  

whisper nothing-nothings in my ear,  

I’ll give it all to you — 

dirty sewers and sickly sunsets,  

bones and fires from heaven,  

nuclear warheads and plastic,  

dying fish and rotten fruit, 

and maybe you’ll cry with  

an orgasmic glint in your eyes,  

“more, more, harder, harder,” 

and I’ll roast in an icy fire,  

the silent-not-screams your delight.  

Image by Public Co from Pixabay