Oranges (Or, Why Julius Evola Would Make a Bad Inner Voice)

I stood outside my front door this morning
about to lock it. Thinking,
I could simply go back inside,
curl up, never show my face at work again.

 

I’m tired of holding this orange of doubt.
Segments of anger and fear, depression’s sprout.
Orange is supposed to be a happy color.
But it’s just the color of my vomit

 

When I think about going to work.
When I think about going to work,
I want someone to just make me disappear.
Whisk me off to an island in my mind.

 

On this island there’d be no sour citrus,
just cool clean coconut and peaceful plantain.
Dancing to the steel drum band,
in soothing moonlight.

 

I stood outside my front door this morning
minutes passed. Thinking,
I could quit today. Go back inside.
Never show my face at work again.

 

But I lock the door
An unnameable force turns me,
and makes me walk to work.
I’ll hold this orange for the rest of the day.

 

***
Julius Evola would tell me,
just get over yourself.
Feck that guy.
***

IMAG0078

 

Above: Disgusting oranges that aren’t actually orange.

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4 responses to “Oranges (Or, Why Julius Evola Would Make a Bad Inner Voice)

  1. Bearing in mind that Evola thought his ravings were aristocratic, cheeky self-centred loon that he was, as well as masculine, you do well to say ‘feck him’. I like the poem.

    • That, and it was also a comment on his thoughts about the individual vs. The role of the individual’s work in society.

  2. That sounds exactly like my opinion of my job. I have to shove that orange in pocket as deep as I can, and hope that my keys and cell phone help to keep it out of sight, out of mind.

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