I have today written elsewhere in this forum of an important recent insight: that I use thoughts of extinction as my only effective way to 'self-soothe'. Critical to this insight was my remembering a poem I wrote forty years ago. It amazes me that I knew this forty years ago but only really grasped what I was saying then in recent days.
The Comfort of Extinction
The sharpness of the sun
and the square heaviness
of daily doings -
of breakfast toast
and truck exhaust,
of children's sticky faces
in my lap.
These mock my midnight struggle
when the unassailable logic
of the comfort of extinction
filled my mind -
and overflowed in visions
of drifting softly in the sandy depths
weeds woven round my eyes
fleshy dribbles being nibbled
from my breasts.
The Comfort of Extinction
The sharpness of the sun
and the square heaviness
of daily doings -
of breakfast toast
and truck exhaust,
of children's sticky faces
in my lap.
These mock my midnight struggle
when the unassailable logic
of the comfort of extinction
filled my mind -
and overflowed in visions
of drifting softly in the sandy depths
weeds woven round my eyes
fleshy dribbles being nibbled
from my breasts.