Jun 2016
by evolutionary criteria we've found ourselves bankrupt, staccato, science fiction ahead but in actual science stalling: due to ethics governed by monetary involvement rather than a chance for a second adventure trail akin to the Conquistadors - and this is talk of a contained environment of pristine vacuum... not the ****** Amazon hay-fever arithmetic chancing-it to recall Portugal via carrier-pigeons!*
once we could aspire to something,
a Samurai's code of honour,
a Hiroshima in terms of the ends
of scientific endeavour....
but now we have nothing to aspire to,
we keep the pope pristine in
a Lenin mausoleum while shoving
our elderly into a Marquis de Sade nowel
(know well, i misspelled novel for a ******* reason,
same reason for the r = trill, even though
the English do the Japanese on it,
so much to remember and so much of it being
utterly insignificant - sprechen like killing
a fly) - we have undermined the heroic that's
100 years apart from us bewildered by the very
existence of it like practising atheists ought to mind...
i wished i'd live back when it mattered, not now,
not now, now seems bound-up by ingratitude,
the prospects of our "last resorts" end up being
dementia patients ******* their own beds...
i'd prefer the other way round -
a relativity question, 10 minutes of agonising pain v.
10 years of agonising wait...
which too choose? the pain, or the wait?
we invented so many failures of the rekindled past,
so many counter fictions that we simply lost the point
of fictionalising it all, we found counter-fiction,
simulation, we begged for simulating the past,
we begged so much that our begging misguided
writing fiction... poetry the eternal crow,
poetry the eternal hyena, poetry the eternal wolf, vulture;
poles aren't vermin, they're vultures...
we wait for the softened part of the body
become protruding and peck.. Scotland is our entry point...
it has become softened post empire building,
a nation in it was a sleeper, it waited...
but we crave the adventure so so much,
that we've lost it, once a psychological endeavour
now nothing more than a zoological signature;
i think of my fathers and see that i have nothing of
a similitude among them -
i see my contemporaries and see that i have nothing
in common with them -
i think of, i see - but neither are similitude havens for me,
i rather quest an identity among beasts,
whether eaten, ridden on, or feared thus poached -
than among those i might call a claim to
experiencing a daily household of preparing meals
or knitting - since after that plateau of the everyday,
i might still be preparing for war
that escaped me digestive concerns.
once we could aspire to something,
a Samurai's code of honour,
a Hiroshima in terms of the ends
of scientific endeavour....
but now we have nothing to aspire to,
we keep the pope pristine in
a Lenin mausoleum while shoving
our elderly into a Marquis de Sade nowel
(know well, i misspelled novel for a ******* reason,
same reason for the r = trill, even though
the English do the Japanese on it,
so much to remember and so much of it being
utterly insignificant - sprechen like killing
a fly) - we have undermined the heroic that's
100 years apart from us bewildered by the very
existence of it like practising atheists ought to mind...
i wished i'd live back when it mattered, not now,
not now, now seems bound-up by ingratitude,
the prospects of our "last resorts" end up being
dementia patients ******* their own beds...
i'd prefer the other way round -
a relativity question, 10 minutes of agonising pain v.
10 years of agonising wait...
which too choose? the pain, or the wait?
we invented so many failures of the rekindled past,
so many counter fictions that we simply lost the point
of fictionalising it all, we found counter-fiction,
simulation, we begged for simulating the past,
we begged so much that our begging misguided
writing fiction... poetry the eternal crow,
poetry the eternal hyena, poetry the eternal wolf, vulture;
poles aren't vermin, they're vultures...
we wait for the softened part of the body
become protruding and peck.. Scotland is our entry point...
it has become softened post empire building,
a nation in it was a sleeper, it waited...
but we crave the adventure so so much,
that we've lost it, once a psychological endeavour
now nothing more than a zoological signature;
i think of my fathers and see that i have nothing of
a similitude among them -
i see my contemporaries and see that i have nothing
in common with them -
i think of, i see - but neither are similitude havens for me,
i rather quest an identity among beasts,
whether eaten, ridden on, or feared thus poached -
than among those i might call a claim to
experiencing a daily household of preparing meals
or knitting - since after that plateau of the everyday,
i might still be preparing for war
that escaped me digestive concerns.
