The subject complement tries to sit down, but the chair slips away, and the nihilistic philosopher, leaning against the counter, murmurs that nothing has a chair, nor a subject, nor a predicate, nor even a floor.
The parrot, perched on the bottle shelf, repeats:
“Nothing means nothing, nothing means nothing,”
but with such precise intonation that even nothing seems to have intention. The linguist, already on his fourth glass, tries to explain that the verb needs a complement, and the philosopher replies that the verb needs nothing, because nothing needs anything,
and the parrot adds:
“Nothing needs anything, but everything demands explanation.”
The comma falls from the linguist’s pocket and rolls across the counter, and the philosopher says that the comma is just a pause between two illusions. The parrot repeats “illusion,” but elongates the “u” as if savoring emptiness.
The implied subject appears, but the philosopher says it was never there. The parrot says it was, but only metaphorically. The linguist tries to mediate, but stumbles over the adverb of manner, which is lying on the floor laughing at everything.
The verb tense enters the bar, but the philosopher claims that time is a human invention, and the parrot replies that time is an invention of the parrot, because it’s the parrot that decides when to repeat things.
Semantics tries to make sense of the conversation, but the philosopher says that sense is a superstition. The parrot repeats “superstition” three times, each with a different meaning, just to prove that semantics is drunk too.
The chicken broth arrives at the table, steaming, comforting, useless. The philosopher says it cures everything, except existence. The parrot says it cures everything, except the parrot. The linguist drinks the broth as if he were drinking syntax.
The metaphor enters the bar with the face of someone who knows more than he says. The philosopher accuses it of lying. The parrot accuses her of telling too much truth. The linguist tries to explain that metaphor neither lies nor tells the truth, it simply changes tables.
At the end of the night, the bar closes. The philosopher continues denying everything. The parrot continues repeating everything. The linguist continues trying to explain everything.
And the poem, tired, gets up and says:
“If nothing makes sense, then at least let me have rhythm.”
And it staggers away, between nihilism, repetition, and the grammar that no longer recognizes it.
hello dearest Par this is a beautifully written poem on metaphor and philosopy you know there is saide to be a void somewhere but even a void has impact ❤️
“Even the void leaves fingerprints.” 😊
LOL this is so clever. Something someone sitting at a New York outside table would observe, and jot down, as they stared at the patrons just inside.
awesome!
“Even everyday life can be sublime, when no one notices.” 😃
Brilliantly penned, PAR. Into the book it belongs! This is so cleverly written my friend with amazing storytelling and your undeniable wit. I’m a huge fan of this one brother. Next level good this is an amazing read. Appreciate you.
Damian
“Thank you, my friend. Knowing that it touched you is already a reward.” 😁