This poem is inspired by my initial reading of Max Stirner, The Ego And Its Own, which I'm currently reading with a view to writing about the philosophy. My essential criticisms of this work will probably revolve around the need for community, which it fails to acknowledge, and this poetry alludes to these criticisms, while enthusiastically embracing some of its worth.

This World Was My Lost Property, English Existential Poetry, Max Stirner, Ego and Its Own

This world is my property
You poor starving peasant you!
A million moments arrayed
Like a cosmic eiderdown
Of twinkling stars
It takes more courage to live
Celebrate The Day of The Dead and be free
How many dreams remain ahead un-schemed?
Virgin snow and eighteen year old girls
Giggling in short skirts
Walking like flamingos on Holloway Road
After the Irish pubs have closed
The brotherhood of tramps
Kafka's Assistants
Doctor Zhivago and great reads
Playing footie with street kids
Falling in love with women with "needs"
Jostling the helmets of WPCs
Blondes, brunettes and copper tints
Splayed out on silk sheets
With creamy skin, kinks and peaches
In little black underwear
Life's a beach
This world was my lost property
I left her on a train
But a nice old lady
Eileen from Southease
Sent her back to me in a parcel
Tied with a pink bow
And I found her once more
This world is my property
My wanton whore
You poor starving peasant you!
All external authority
Is mere dust of dust
Pedantry and nothing to me
Let it rust
And lay it to rest
I have no fear of death
There's no justice
There's just us.

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