Posts Tagged ‘good or evil’

Daily life is a cruel overlord,
And the world is a sycophantic thrall to it,
Pointed heels and crimson banners,
On a petty crusade against mans stability,
A grinder on our heads,

There is no absolute escape,
But we can always take the rear exit,
Take our hands off the wheel for a jot,
Clinch on to lunacy and escapist methods,
Rotes of digital and chemical evasion,

Play air guitars and perform in personal talent shows,
Vanish into virtual reality made by men in basements,
Sleep the suns and moons away,
Sedate your mind with bottles and needles and nicotine,
Excess by design of course,

Who needs real life?
Let that grinder have your wreck of a body,
While your mind escapes into detachment,
Fit on your spacesuit and take your umbrella,
And off into that make-believe universe of quiet.

Every day I seem to witness,
With drawn eyes,
News stories that make me seethe,
Built-in inequality,
Bankers in the slaughterhouses of Wall Street,
Political duplicity,

Impotent old men upon the beaches of society,
Building sandcastles in imperial styles,
Houses of cards,
With sands of ground-up people,
Little voters at the bottom of the ladder,
Each spadeful shrieks in dissent,

The sands mount tall,
Kept strong on designs of grim architects,
The castles are patted down with manifesto lies,
The old men cheer as they rise,
When will the tide come,
And tear these foul empires down?

I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,

Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,

Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,

My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,

We are our own gods now.

There is only one deity,
And you walk upon her fair form each day,
She is resplendent but in pain,
Choking in an unwanted gas mask,
Built from smokestacks and uranium,

She gave us a home,
But we try our best to destroy her for it,
We burn her green hair,
Her make-up blemished by craters and battlefields,
Her aqua veins are tainted,

Predetermined she limps through space,
She is gripped by barbed wire,
Painfully stopping her from fleeing,
From the satellite gnats,
As they photograph unwanted areas,

She cries in thunderstorms,
As we deliver naught but agony,
She is tempted to burn or wash us away in rage,
She resists though,
She is our mother,
Yet we garrote her each day.

Today we earn our keep,
With sire and sibling,
We work through the day,
Sunrise to sundown,
Sweat becomes bricks,
While effort becomes cement,
Strain begets architecture,
Humanity breeds hovels,

Old homes become new,
To a subpar radio soundtrack,
With the muck and hammer,
Mortar and trowels,
Bricks and plaster,
We’re building a new world,
On top of an old one,
Or perhaps in spite of it.

We bow to icons,
All of us,
They control us without our knowledge,
Symbols and portraits and likenesses,
Permeating influence over our cortices,

They’re shapeshifters you know,
They change to suit our ideals,
Or our vices,
Not necessarily malignant,
But still all-consuming,

To one man it could be a godful symbol,
Words from an invisible man,
Commanding words from the past,

The lady over there sees a dollar sign,
The path to prosperity,
The religion of finances and using,

This boy idolises his favourite star,
Tentatively forming a blueprint he wishes to follow,
An icon dictating his lifes path,

Another man looks up to the statue of his leader,
His eyes well with respect,
Even while his taxes rise,

These things are everywhere,
Inanimate perhaps,
But nevertheless powerful,
Billboards and cenotaphs and celebrities,
Icons hold an influence over us,
That rivals even deities.

Time oversees us all,
Within its hourglass booth,
Like a tiger unable to maul,
With fangs of sand,

We cannot escape it,
We are leashed to it,
Our bodies wilt and rot,
As the sand falls unquestioned,

The hourglass stands tall,
Upon an iron podium,
Like a dictator,
With gravity a willing sycophant,

A true oligarch,
This Father Time,
Emotionless and unrelenting,
Fists of platinum wearing us down,

And as the sand falls,
We shall fall too,
Into gaping graves,
Such is the edict of time.

This orator,
His words are stout yet beautiful,
Vigorous yet codling,
They are forts for good people,
They form bridges to understanding,

A maestro of the spoken word,
His tongue orders charges of sonic armies,
At such decibel,
As to wake even the dead,
And crack the sky,

We all hear him,
And witness his war on the silence,
His syllables the troops,
His words the tanks,
His utterances commence artillery strikes,

The still is the enemy of learning,
The quiet a cruel dictator,
To stop would invite the enemy back,
The icy silence,
So he cries ever on.

I am bound to this place,
This gothic mausoleum,
Of outdated thesis,
Warding off evil with monstrosity,
I was chiselled out of stone,
So I feel nothing,

I appear an abomination,
An amalgamation of goat and drake,
A chimera,
A terrible sculpture,
Defending this farcical place,
As if it held the grail,

An architectural guardian,
A gargoyle in the common parlance,
I look down at the ants below,
My granite heart feels nothing,
Yet I wonder what their lives are like,
Are they as cold as I?

I was once a very real dragon,
If not for this cement,
I would soar from this perch,
And wreathe the earth in flame once again,
But fear not child,
Those warm days are long dead,

For I am bound to this place.

As I lay incapacitated,
Upon this grassy knoll,
My shoulder and lung run through,
By barb of crossbow bolt,
I spy my Lady-General,

A maiden of war,
This carnage is her dance,
Dashing from dance partner after dance partner,
Bestowing upon them crimson terminal flourishes,
Spewing ribbons and pyrotechnics to applause of screams,

This theatre,
Spanning over ruined meadows,
With fire and arrows overhead,
A charnel drama,
Host to my Ladys baneful ballet,

Chinks in mail,
Gaps in plate,
All find spots for her blades,
She leads the way,
Bringing the wardance to the enemy,

Morosely she kneels at my side,
“We are War”,
“But your dance is over”,
Wistfully pecking me farewell,
I fade into the abyss.