dissertation frustration #472

here's a poem i wrote recently. i couldn't get the indenting to come out as i wanted, so it doesn't look quite right. but you get the idea.


dissertation frustration #472

which of us has not thought
that the mind of the analytic philosopher
is as insipid as it is precise,

his demanded clarity
a fog obscuring our human life,

his pen a razor-
not for separating soul from spirit, joint from marrow-
but concept from concept
and yet, for all its sharpness,
all that distinguishes his distinctions is their dullness:
their persistent ability to provoke a shrug, and
the sense that the important thing has somehow been missed,
that all this makes no difference
or, worse,
is uninnocent distraction?