O! what drear, bleak, wretched savagery
of image or solidity
in the Womb of Night,
in the Grave of Day.
what life living unto living’s own
deathly way; scourge of man and woman
to shuffle, dim, alight, and strive to raise up
monuments of Divinity
rather than let the Divine live in
and through them,
but Time does crash and swell,
crush, surge, and purge intention
’til life does become bound and blinded
and action flails impotently
without desire or design.
the Masters of humankind,
the governors, the generals, the clergy,
do enshrine themselves in statues of stone
and brass and they shape their plaster walls
and wooden coffins to point precicely
they rise up vulture-like to erect monoliths
of excrement that they would have us deify.
but O! the masses scramble in rat-hole streets
burning to live one moment as humans,
but they are bent, brittle, spent,
beasts of burden for ideological-economic-fallacious machinery
while their infants weep
on soiled sheets
in shoddy cribs of splintered sticks
eating porridge from lead-poisoned spoons
as mothers make salt-soup with their own tears.
the tragic skylines of the world!
steel and glass pierce the clouds
edifices fling light wildly
obscuring the story-myths that are written there
every night and every season in the inky void.
these buildings assume majesty
but humanity chokes on the smoke
that billows all around these ant-hill-cities
that destroy truth and beauty of the
simplest and purest forms.
the horror! great bridges spanning
churning polluted waters
and how many dead are there? workers
forever entombed in concrete,
bodies without names, graves whose headstones
are the hood ornaments of a million brash, shiny cars
hurtling forward thoughtlessly,
cars with drivers that irreverently roar
and stomp upon the forsaken dead bones below them;
there are ghosts in the pavement beneath their wheels
and they have not a thought
for their repeated desecrations.
O nameless demon that doth curse
our infinite strivings,
taint our pure and innocent yearnings,
what blackened wings will next overshadow
our small intentions,
our elemental living,
our inventions of mental contortion
that allow slivers of prayerful hope
as we languish in the chains of Time?
what bird of terror will again tear at our livers,
spilling our shimmering viscera on burning sand?
war-machines and politics, border skirmishes,
imperial hubris and outright hatred,
disputed thought-systems that control the money-flow
disguised as arguments over Gods
and morals of archaic religions.
all of this is ultimately absurd.
a plague of ignorant violence
leads humanity toward an atomic death,
mushroom clouds and desolation will remain;
dominion over the earth passes then
to the beetles, until they too
develop the malicious intelligence
to annihilate themselves.
31AUG02, 1SEP02, 16SEP14