A man may sell out his soul to be loved:
Freud had that right.
Looking down at the stars deep in the night
Astral projecting
From the blue ball of life
You can feel mercilessly alone
Like that Moody Blues song off
To Our Children's Children's Children,
Watching and Waiting.
.
We go the other way, too,
Crazed by our loneliness, made vicious
In an exile we inherited and don't understand
Fist clenching a stone,
Like some little God, skipping it across the universe,
Or some desert rebel rabble roused with rage
At Abraham's God and the iniquity of sand,
Fist clenched at the smug face of universal silence.
.
Oscar Wilde claimed we kill the things we love.
Some with a shiv, some with quick words.
Et tu? Gesundheit, the reply of brute force,
Sword, words, in and up.
There are monsters in the labyrinth.
There's fire in the a**hole.
Cold callers telling tall tales that we listen to,
Having grown accustomed to be lied to
By totalitarians and fascists of the latest regime.
Oscar died in a Paris gutter.
EA Poe died in a Baltimore gutter.
.
We watch and wait. Alone.
With pain and suffering beyond belief;
Beyond what any fadding paradigm can fix.
About to lose consciousness
Gobbled up by the gears of machinery
God told us to stay away from
Back in Eden, and now we're gods,
Pathologies duking it out for the new emperor,
AGI Caligula.
Dying lights, dead inside, owned and operated on
By nincompoops
who see themselves as geniuses.
