It’s not that I am bereft of choices
I have several trousers in my cupboard
Few fancy ones that I reserve for events
The rest completely functional for any purpose
Why then do I stick to my pair of dark blue jeans?
Simple they are comfortable, not so simple, a deeper meaning perhaps
A swine like me pretending to be intellectual will formulate, will postulate
A thesis for something that does not have need any jejune symbolism
Gloat over insignificance and jump deliriously for being so clever, clever.
Fact is jeans are not worthy enough to espouse a philosophy about
Jeans are carnal and canine like bite into your skins and don’t let go
Jeans become akin to the body and yet relieve you from the sorry of nudity
They salivate and glue like stick to your calves without support of dogma.
My jeans carry my secrets, they have access to the darkest moments of mine
Like the faithful old bulldog they don’t ever question the validity of my faith
Their tactile connect keeps on reminding me of the vacuousness of existence
Instilling complacency well beyond belief in institutions that are dysfunctional.
My jeans define who I am underlining my essential hollowness and vapidity
My politics, my religion, my cinema, my sexuality, are all encoded in them
Arousals, ejaculations, flaccidity, virility, vanity, vigour, cowardice and more
Without my jeans I will become a glass without water, a body without a soul.
My jeans are meant to keep me alive and so I choose them.
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