Are not they, who spend their days
in other ways than politics…
Are they not eternally vindicated?
By the dead eyes of rumour and her hysterical ghouls,
the swarming bugs that pass for angels
or bombs, equally crude…
Are there not better ways to spend your time,
than sifting through the grape vine?
and harshly emending the dull and stupid
who have already made their wine?
And your hands smell of vinegar, til boredom consumes you,
disintegrating books in the rain, there were never enough…
If the world must be done, because of such shit,
at least I’m free of part in it.
But, of course, you might say, I had a part. I can’t escape.
When I saw the devil forming out
of this band of idiots, telling their tales
and I chose instead to fade away
rather than to rage, in truth’s chorus
chanting for a better day.
“For grotesque rumour never sleeps,
and screeches out, flooding the air
but feathers ruffled, eyes unblinking scared,
fearing the truth, my friends, we keep.
We’ll ground it with this truth.” You say
but the wave of shit is still a wave
and drowning in a tide of hate
is not how I want to keep my days
we can’t escape our material trace
but we can certainly hide from it
they count on this, the nihilist scum
they count that they can eat insects and stare at the sun
they count that they will die laughing in her burning rays
they count their human sacrifices on a abacus made of twigs
they wear business suits stitched from human skin
they lead their journalists to the dead dimension
they cast them away, screaming with pleasure
they tear out their eyes and throw them in too
as they float out I see a reflection of my bowing form
they stand on top of the pyramids and hold up hearts pouring with fresh blood
They take their kids to school.
They look at you surprised.
The dead zone of the imagination flashes its colourless light from their cracking tongues, branded with dollar signs.
I cry for human contact
I turn aside
Wishing I was blind
Are not those who spend their days,
not staring into our abyss,
Are they not eternally vindicated by this?
[Another poem I previously submitted, in another form, to Salvage. The original version had a sticky sweetness by the end, at least it seems that way to me now. I added a certain realism.]