In these times,
Following the book of 1985,
All smokestacks and cameras,
We are thrown ahead as fodder,
Little cogs in the machine,
In to a world full of radiation and bad men,
We are crash test dummies,
Emphasis on dummies,
Coins in a grinder,
Crashing along government lines,
Amongst all the other wreckages,
All part of some smoking room plan,
All we are worth is what we can withstand,
What we can suffer,
But this is no simulated test,
This is real blood and guts life.
We are all a storm,
Raindrops one and all,
We are aqua,
Fluid,
Changeable,
Gravity nips at our heels,
All of us,
From princes to paupers,
Some indeed raise above the masses,
Lifted by warchests and oil drills,
But even they veer towards ground,
Ones altitude in life means nothing,
This is a storm,
We all fall together.
What is left of a world,
Once all potential is wasted?
When no deified spirits are listening,
And even the ivory towers are vacant,
Just the muck,
The detritus,
The residue of hope,
No longer viable,
I see piles of it everywhere,
I swear even in the mirrors eye,
Wasted potential,
Grey and cracked in the sun,
Walking here and about,
Coughing and spluttering,
Debating and multiplying,
This mess,
This population,
It pretends to be concrete,
It feigns purpose,
When it is meant for naught but the drain.
I see it,
I feel it,
I wish it were a nightmare,
But it is manifest,
I spy it on the horizon,
Across waters not yet disturbed,
A miserable stormfront,
Foreboding in the heavy air,
This storm alludes to future pain,
Bolts like thrown tableware,
Humid air like the tension between foes,
Thunder like the lashes of expletives,
Clouds and lights like eidolic billboards,
Lamentation in arcing lights,
It waits in the distance,
A reminder that the great misery beckons.
Walking through these cold streets,
All I see is grey,
Save for the colours of demons,
Hovering behind human shoulders,
Feral spirits whispering into human ears,
Cupped hands beside unknowing brains,
Sweet nothings that feign sweetness,
One suggests taking that crones handbag,
Another sings the praises of broken windows,
Yet another gives you invitations to every speak-easy,
These invisible spectres suggest the worst of vices,
Pushing a dark narrative,
They are over all of our shoulders,
Wearing the shrouds of angels,
Whispering,
Whispering,
Suggesting.
To some the body is a temple,
A pagoda of perfection,
Built upon leylines of zen,
Spirituality making up the brick and mortar,
The human body sharpened to a spearpoint,
Physical prowess matched only by mental acumen,
Balance in all things,
These people are monks of the self,
It is an admirable way,
But it is not mine,
I’m more of a ronin of the road,
I walk and suffer what comes,
My body is more of an overloaded carriage,
Ramshackle yet sufficient,
Unbalanced yet relentless,
I get by in my inferior way.
People put so much credence in the past,
Like it’s a law under threat of death,
Those events are now all you are,
They supposedly cannot be escaped,
More dogged even than the reaper,
But I say the past is just a wound healed,
An obsolescence,
No more vital than knowing a mans favourite shade,
Yesterday should be obsolete,
Aside from the lessons learned,
Instead I propose you leave it behind,
Learn what you can and move forward,
It’s education not your whole being,
Pedagogy and not a cross to bear,
Look onwards to tomorrow,
There lies the true path after all.
The fly on the wall left for a jaunt,
Out of the window,
Across a lawn laid in neglect,
There he met his companion the gnome,
In flaxen shirt and inert gaze,
Fishing rod and gormless grin,
The fly said to the gnome,
“Between us we see everything,
I within the house and you without,
Sins within this hovel and besides,
I’ve seen the married souls lay with strangers,
You’ve seen needles and shady deals alfresco,
I’ve smelt the scent of flesh under floorboards,
You’ve seen where the bodies are buried under turf,
Together we could rule this place”,
In response the gnome looked ever on,
Unimpressed,
The fly’s proposed blackmail not to his liking,
His painted eyes still staring wide-eyed,
The fly seethed at the refusal,
Zooming back to the house in a rage,
He would bring ruin to the occupants elseways.
As you keep driving on your way,
With your excavations,
The glories of your spelunking may be lavish,
Diamonds and rubies and platinum,
It may be all going your way,
But take note my friend,
Keep your pickaxe humble,
Beware of the stones you part,
They threaten to cave in,
Their gravity more than enough to destroy you,
The boulders whisper to one another,
The stalactites train their blades upon you,
Remember that life’s excavation can be deadly,
Keep your mining light low,
And stay humble.
WorldofHarley 