The Comedian

κόσμον τόνδε, τὸν αὐτὸν ἁπάντων, οὔτε τις θεῶν οὐτε ἀνθρώπων ἐποίησεν, ἀλλ’ ἦν ἀεὶ καὶ ἔστιν καὶ ἔσται πῦρ ἀείζωον, ἁπτόμενον μέτρα καὶ ἀποσβεννύμενον μέτρα

Stewart Lee

I can write jokes, I just choose not to


You don’t get a blaze of laughter but you should
Laughter is like fire
it crackles and splutters
it purifies
Wild like laughter like fire

It dances, it dances
as though mocking time itself
with its not-existing-existence,
and gone
As your brain ticks beneath the heat of the lighting

The machine of your mouth
The subtler machine within
your sandpaper brain
The scratch of your delivery
What you have done is create

substantial nothing
It purifies
Your lips on the mic in caesura – flow
you create
sound after silence

brute noise after a system of manipulations
joy as a by-product
of a political point
The stomach of an auditorium

like in the cartoon
where the human-like non-human animal
burps so fiercely it sets ablaze
chars to a carbon squiggle
anyone close

It crackles and splutters
and your brain ticks beneath the heat of the lighting
Did you get that
Joy as a by-product of the political point
it purifies

The comedic ouroboros
If there is an escape from ideology
it lies somewhere within the circle
of the seriously silly

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