Ridiculous

What to make of the ridiculous? Does it hide

some arcane purpose – if we tried to plumb

its silly surface would we understand? Should

we just dismiss it out-of-hand? Or is it da-da art –

what-me-worry laissez-faire? Do we care? Is all

it is a bore? Ever more unyielding, there it squats,

will always squat, before us like a dirty joke,

indolently fat, its flatulent obscenities of disregard

all fatuously uninvolved and uninvolving, happy

to be out of it, too at ease with inexplicability,

too pleased that it will never matter more than

what in all essential aspects it amounts to: spit.

Or the other word you’re thinking of which rhymes

with spit. More breezily, perhaps, in better moods

than one now finds oneself, one might be slightly

more disposed to find a welcome freedom in

its unconsidered pose and scatter. One supposes,

like a good detective with a nose for it, one might

be to able to. But one’s opposed to it. It is, to one,

at best a thing to kill. Because it does imply –

in fact, overtly cry: there’s no such thing as will.

.