avatarCarlo Zeno

Summary

The poem "Falling For Promised Fruit" reflects on the harsh realities of the writing industry, where success is often illusory and the struggle for recognition can lead to exploitation and disillusionment.

Abstract

"Falling For Promised Fruit" is a poignant meditation on the arbitrary nature of success in the writing world. The poem contrasts the romanticized image of the starving artist with the modern-day reality of writers who must vie for attention in a competitive digital landscape. The author laments the commercialization of writing, where content is created for virality rather than substance, and where the promise of success often leads to a cycle of hope and despair. The poem conveys a sense of betrayal and exploitation, as writers bleed for their art while the successful remain silent, solid, and unmoved by the struggles of their peers. The tragedy of arbitrary suffering is highlighted, with the world's indiscriminate cruelties compared to the random selection of meat at a butcher's. The poem concludes with a stark image of the everyday tragedies that go unnoticed by the gods, reflecting the desensitization to suffering in contemporary society.

Opinions

  • Writers are compelled to seek validation and success, often at the cost of their integrity and authenticity.
  • The writing industry is depicted as a place where viral content overshadows genuine artistry.
  • The author expresses a deep yearning for true success and the guidance of those who have 'made it'.
  • There is a critique of the illusion of success perpetuated by social media and the viral content economy.
  • The poem suggests that society is indifferent to suffering, with tragedies occurring without reason or justice.
  • The author feels disillusioned by the gap between the promise of success and the reality of the writing profession.

Falling For Promised Fruit

A poem on arbitrary tragedies

Photo by laura adai on Unsplash

Writers need to eat too. We are not Kafka’s hunger artists selling poverty’s fascination behind carnival bars, inviting eyes that cannot look away.

No, we are forced to fish for those curator’s fortunate fingers, praying for circulation, vying to go viral.

The winners write lists, sell moons, promise planets. Their success glitters — so many followers, ravishing click bait of eight keys to success, ten steps to wealth and happiness. Poverty always wants to believe. We want to believe them.

Fastened to my dreaming eye, your pitch turns tragic– Hopes converted into cash, desperation monetized, disillusion actualized.

How I love to believe In good intentions– The helping hand. The honest advice. The wise one who made it. The success story.

I am very slow, heavy like the globe, going in dumb circles, never learning.

You are mute, proud up to your neck, solid marble. Fascist God of Money. Victory.

I am not a god. When I fall, I bleed.

I am dumb and open, and you are loving my stupidity. It is your plaything, my golden gullibility.

I am hugging my bondage, Pressing into it as it rips me apart.

Envy pricks the skin, desire gets in the veins. Thief of my eyes. Jailer of my soul.

Like a rattlesnake in Paradise, cold meticulous skin, you offer low hanging fruit, monetary promises so tempting, dripping with hope.

I wake up hungry, hung over. Smashed ego like cracked quartz, million little ruby red pieces of dignity crunch like glass under your feet.

The world eats the innocent, selecting haphazardly, the same way meat is chosen at the butcher’s. No rhyme or reason to it. We cannot say Yemen and Ukraine had it coming to them. We cannot use the logic of karma to justify the murder of children.

The evening is coming on and I am walking home from work. Red roses like gunshot wounds line a string of broken fences. A dead possum lays on the pavement.

The gods say nothing. They are used To these little accidents.

© Carlo Zeno 2022

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