Old man ejaculates alone.
Life by numbers. Long life.
Sequoias too.
torpid now nearly eighty I offer my little
hard turds to the Buddha
Avoiding shame.
What I say
and what I think are (I think I hope I think)
the same.
Flowers are silent
Silence is silent
My mind is a noisy flower with the corpses of insect-thoughts sticking to it
Half-dissolved gravestones
can, if you're desperate, be used for grinding coffee.
The painful path is beautiful
and leads to beautiful painless nothing
Memory is a bramble-patch
scratching your every thought
and producing drupelet scabs
Value-laden words
Dirt too is beautiful
and the spiral swirly flush of turds
Blind donkey stumbles over stones into walls and ditches
Pain, no words, no hope
Covid-19
just a drop in the ocean a neutral
drop in the bitter
ocean a tiny drop in
the viral soup
Wholesome
dog-shit can teach you more
than the writings of the holy wholly unholy
fakers of wisdom
I have never seen my brain
constant life constant death
wearisome
the moon is so attractive
一 after Ikkyū Anthony Weir 17th April 2020
(from www.beyond-the-pale.uk/zentags.htm)
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