Carl Halling Poet Free verse

The Compensatory Man Par Excellence

I seldom indulge in letter writing 
Because I consider it 
To be a cold and illusory 
Means of communication. 
I will only send someone a letter 
If I'm certain it's going to serve 
A definite functional purpose, 
Such as that which I'm 
Scrupulously concocting at present 
Indisputably does.
It's not that I incline 
Towards excessive premeditation; 
Its rather that I have to subject 
My thoughts and emotions 
To quasi-military discipline, 
As pandemonium is the sole alternative. 
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.
                                                              
Deliberation, in my case, 
Is a means to an end, 
But scarcely by any means, 
An end in itself. 
This letter possesses not one, 
But two, designs. 
On one hand, its aim is edification. 
Besides that, I plan to include it 
In the literary project upon which 
I'm presently engaged, 
With your permission of course.
Contrary to what you have suspected 
In the past, 
I never intend to trivialise intimacy 
By distilling it into art. 
On the contrary, I seek 
To apotheosise the same. 
                                                              
You see...I lack the necessary 
Emotional vitality to do justice 
To people and events 
That are precious to me; 
I am forced, therefore, 
To at a later date call 
On emotive reserves 
Contained within my unconscious 
In order to transform 
The aforesaid into literary monuments.
You once said that my feelings 
Had been interred under six feet 
Of lifeless abstractions; 
As true as this might be, 
The abstractions in question 
Come from without 
Rather than within me: 
                                                              
My youthful spontaneity 
Many mistrustfully identified 
With self-satisfied inconsiderateness
(A standard case of fallacious reasoning), 
And I was consequently 
The frequent victim 
Of somewhat draconic cerebrations. 
I tremble now 
In the face of hyperconsciousness. 
I've manufactured a mentality, 
Riddled with deliberation, 
Cankerous with irony; 
Still, in its fragility, 
Not to say, artificiality, 
It can, with supreme facility, 
Be wrenched aside to expose 
The touch-paper tenderness within.
                                                              
With characteristic extremism, 
I've taken ratiocination 
To its very limits, 
But I've acquainted myself with, 
Nay, embraced my antagonist 
Only in order to more effectively throttle him. 
Being a survivor of the protracted passage 
Through the morass of nihilism, 
Found deep within 
"the hell of my inner being,"
I am more than qualified to say this: 
There is no way out 
Of the prison of ceaseless sophistry.
There are many things I have left to say, 
But I shall only have begun to exist in earnest 
When these are far behind me, 
In fact, so far as to be all but imperceptible. 
                                                              
I long for the time 
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction. 
I never desired intellectuality; it was thrust upon me. 
Everything I ever dreaded being, I've become
Everything I ever desired to be, I've become. 
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's 
Fears and fantasies, 
Both wish-fulfillment 
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I long for the time 
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction. 
I never desired intellectuality; it was thrust upon me.  
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's 
Fears and fantasies, 
Both wish-fulfillment 
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.

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