Sonnet 45 (a tafsir of Fabian Derange)

The body engages in gameplay, ranging across the spectrum of virtual heroics
It feels intermittently desirous and numb, and hurt and numb, to the lady who resides inside his lost psyche
The body is found here, friendless, foiled and forlorn
It’s not as if the body has a mind, intellect, or soul: the body was created as a clay vessel, perhaps to contain wine, but it contains no wine.
I dreampt I was the body, last night, along with some other figure who always somehow evaded my field of vision,
I wondered if it were better to be shattered, that at least then it wouldn’t be so ironic in form’s implied function:
A vessel fashioned to contain, to hold, to possess wine, or honey perhaps.
A fear of my irony. Finally I’ve travelled far enough, to this land, created by myself and out of myself, this irony, and this fear. 
Asking myself again in the midst of this see-saw of selfish stupidity
Asking myself again, while passing time once again in the cell of my Satanic show:
Why do I render ugly that which is beautiful
With such a force of intent, convincing myself that I have honourable conviction to the axioms I penned ages ago … when now … now, in truth, I have emptied myself of truth.
Oh darkness, my fractures, my fissures, my sad archeology, they belong in the British Museum, an antique vessel’s vagary, vain and vague,
Let these exhausted projects become figments of my cruelty’s curation. And in their place, fresh clay to hold next season’s pressing. A form no longer ironic in its confident utility.

…..

A tafsir of the following.
Fabien Derange watches Xbox walkthroughs on youtube and subscribes to Dr Who monthly.
He jerks off to asian anal sluts and milfhunter in between calls when he’s WFH
And loves to hang at Forbidden Planet during his weekends, and plans cautious \& friendless expeditions to Comicon to perv on the anime cosplay.
Fabien Derange is an utter jerk who the world doesn’t need but somehow vomited up after a particularly rough bender.
I dreampt he died the other day, along with some other figure who was always somehow out of sight,
I wondered if he represents an aspect of myself, within the theatre of my unconscious.
I wondered, if that is true, then what might he represent?
A fear of what middle age looks like? A fear of failure? He’s certainly a loser at work, though appears content with his pathetically impotent private life.
Asking myself again in the midst of this see-saw of stupidity I create for myself here,
Asking myself again, while passing time once again in the cell of my Satanic show:
Why do I render ugly that which is beautiful
With such a force of intent, convincing myself that I have honourable conviction to the axioms I penned ages ago … when now … now, in truth, I’m becoming more and more like Fabien, I fear.
Becoming more like Fabien Derange? Becoming more. More? Or less. Shame upon me. And guilt too. 

And failed projects all around me: aborted poetry, aborted software projects, circular attempts, cycles of failure. Failures I’m not going to blame myself for: I think I’ll blame Derange, as he’s weaker than me and a fucking arsehole.

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