Fuck off, David Hume

There are still
Two pillows in my bed,
They are lying there,
Unbothered by all things human,
Silent witnesses to,
The moments of my past life.

Maybe I should get rid of one,
Make a big fire out in the yard,
And commit it to the flames,

That’s what David Hume would do,
To a thing rendered useless,
A mystical, emotional object,
Unproven and stubborn,
Resisting with no struggle,
A thing of no value,
For all my homes.

No pillow will be distraught,
It would be like burning her,
Her human flesh and tar black hair,
Her oleander skin, her bouncy and
permanently resiliating chair.

My face droops,
As I see her, smiling, naked,
Loving me wildly,
Sleeping on my pillow,
Rendered useless,
As memories often are.

So fuck you David Hume,
I will do what I want,
Pursue my own foolishness,
Perhaps,
Insist on being unhappy,
As some would say,
My life has known great beauty,
But life’s no fucking eternal teenage party.