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Joseph Sinclair Nov 2014
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.

Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.

I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.

It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.

But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.

Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).

To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.

Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.

That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.

I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.

I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.

And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.

#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in *Adam Bede
Hannah Jones Jul 2017
Happiness is hard.
We project onto others
subjective pleasure.
"If we only wanted to be happy, it would be easy; but we want to be happier than other people, and that is almost always difficult, since we think them happier than they are."

-Charles de Montesquieu
DAVID  Oct 2015
La leona
DAVID Oct 2015
el feroz coito interrumpido,
por esa mirada, de mujer gato,
de leona de fuego.

tu cuerpo gritaba por el
placer, escondido de tu propio
deseo.

clamas por un toque lascivo,
buscas  que te azote
tenderly.

y luego te ame en silencio.

la feroz torsión de tu
cuerpo, rozando
el mio.

la mustia y quieta llama,
se volvió fogata, en tus entrañas,
de mujer felina.

ruges por  mi mordida,
luego te dejas estar,
mirando silente.

que aquella bestia deseada,
te folle en la oscuridad,
como niña buena, que
desea peligro.

y el roce equinoccial se
vuelve placentero,

como si el dolor y la perdida,
fuernan la exquisita concecuencia,
de ser lo que eres, una leona,

una diosa que muerde el polvo,
entre la perdida y lo exquisito
en tu caída, y en tu
humanización

estando perdida hallaste el centro,
tu leona, rugiendo,
amada bestia.

perdida entre los estertores,
de tus entrañas, en fuego, y entre ese
fuego la hallaste

  tu leona,tu leoparda
    hermosa salvaje,
  serena.

davide montesquieu
Joseph Sinclair  Oct 2014
Q.E.D.
Joseph Sinclair Oct 2014
Voltaire said
if god did not exist he would have to be invented.
But god does not exist,
except in my imagination.
Therefore I have invented him.

And according to Montesquieu,
if I were a triangle
my god would have three sides.

But god is of my mind
and thus . . .
god is me, and
I am god.

*quod erat demonstrandum
L'honneur permet la galanterie quand elle est unie à
L'idée de sentiments du cœur, ou à l'idée de conquête.
Montesquieu.


Mon idéal n'est pas : mon ange,
À qui l'on dit : mon ange, mange ;
Tu ne bois pas, mon ange aimé ?
Un pauvre ange faux et sans ailes
Que les plus sottes ritournelles
Ont étrangement abimé.

Mon idéal n'est pas : ma chère,
De l'amant qui fait maigre chère,
Et dit chère, du bout des dents,
Moins chère que ma chère tante,
Ou que la chaire protestante
Où gèlent les sermons prudents.

Mon idéal n'est pas : ma bonne !
Ce n'est pas la bonne personne,
Celle dont on dit, et comment !
« Elle est si bonne ! elle est si douce ! »
Et qui jamais ne vous repousse,
Madone du consentement !

Non ! mon idéal, c'est la femme
Féminine de corps et d'âme,
Et femme, femme, femme, bien,
Bien femme, femme dans les moelles,
Femme jusqu'au bout de ses voiles,
Jusqu'au bout des doigts n'étant rien.

Une petite femme haute,
Capable de punir la faute,
Et de mépriser le Pervers,
Qui ne peut souffrir que l'aimable
Dans son salon, ou dans la fable,
Aussi bien en prose qu'en vers.

Une petite femme sûre
De trouver l'âme à sa mesure
Après... un petit brin de cour,
Et le chevalier à sa taille
Avant... l'heure de la bataille,
Oui, car... c'est la guerre, l'Amour,

Je vous dis l'Amour, c'est la guerre.
En guerre donc ! tu m'as naguère
Sacré ton chevalier féal !
Je vais sortir de ma demeure !
Je vaincrai, Madame, où je meure !
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

Comme un dur baron qui se fâche
Contre le pillard ou le lâche,
Quittait le fort seigneurial,
Je saisis ma lance et mon casque
Avec le panache et... sans masque,
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

Armé de ma valeur intime,
Oui, coiffé de ma propre estime,
Je m'élance sur mon cheval :
Le temps est beau, la terre est ronde,
Je ris au nez de tout le monde !
Car vous êtes mon idéal !

La lance autant que l'âme altière,
Nous jetons à la terre entière
Le gant, certes ! le plus loyal.
Mon bon cheval ne tarde guère,
Allons ! Et vole au cri de guerre !
Tous ! Valentine est l'Idéal !
Transformation into NOTHING

The mind, through Heresy— a sieve!
Add sticky fear, and thus we live,
And turn the world to dust and ash,
A fleeting dream, a final crash.



---------------------



Transformation in Dark NOTHING
Through The False — see Foolish coming!
Mix in fear, cold and  Black—
And the world won’t e’er come back.



---------------------



Sharp Rise in Egg Prices

The price of eggs has soared so high—
For poor folks, less to eat again.
They bow before the wicked lie,
And life turns harder now for them...

A man-made scheme in full control—
The grip of death will tighten fast.
Deception reigns—its final goal:
A flood of lies too vast to grasp.



---------------------



I See and I Know

I see it, I know—
My verses will show.
That’s work, that’s my duty!
Yet sorrow’s sharp beauty
Still rings, never fading,
For fate is invading
My soul with its fire—
Not lost in the mire
Of this world of lies,
But where spirits rise,
Where demigods reign.
A poem may guide—
If you don’t comply...



---------------------



Slow Boil

The frog had heard a tale so grim—
A *** where heat would slowly rise.
Yet she believed it was a whim—
Until she boiled... to her surprise.

You’ll see the truth when it's too late:
The cook pretends to feed us all.
But beasts are food—he sets their fate.
His goal’s to boil, not to enthrall!



---------------------



"Novelty"

The "new" fool rises once again
To spread the Lies of those in power,
And chains grow tighter on all men—
Their nonsense chills us by the hour.

The few who see—too rare to save,
A fading kind, a dying breed.
The world is lost, beyond the grave—
The Depths laid bare by CowID’s deed.



---------------------



False Religions

"If triangles had their own god’s might,
He’d surely be a three-sided sight."
— Montesquieu


How weak the gods that men devise,
Mere foolish food, absurd and vain.
Their holy books repeat old lies—
Three lines, and all begins to wane.

This world is built on dull deceit,
Its masses led by fraud and fear—
To slave for crumbs, accept defeat,
To die in wars, or rot right here.

They trust in myths, they kneel and wait
For bliss beyond, yet fail to see:
They’ve never truly lived to date—
Like salted slugs, they crawl to sea.



---------------------



No savior will come, none will aid—
So fight as you can ‘gainst the Wrong.
But Death is the judge, and it’s weighed:
Were you just a fool all along?



---------------------



Crystals of Truth Amid Mountains of Mire

They’ll write up tons of hollow lines—
Editors rule with careful hand,
Selecting all that twists and blinds
The soul, so darkness grips the land.

They lift up ego, sharpen guile,
And heap deception on the pyre.
Confusion blooms—a numbing smile,
While minds are drowning in the mire.

This trash was made to cloud the sight,
Truth’s crystals lost within the lies.
The media now owns the night,
As Bedlam feeds the world’s disguise.

So finding truth—just slim remains—
Like searching needles in the stains.



---------------------



Decay

To twist your soul, just heed the lies,
Let nonsense fill your ears and eyes.
To **** the mind—obey once more,
Drink poison words that Evil pours.

Decay will spread, enslaving all,
And you will help the darkness crawl.
For greed alone you play the game,
All else erased without a shame.

The world is blind, corrupt, untrue,
And those who see are far too few.
No handful here can turn the tide—
Decay will grow. It won’t subside.



---------------------



Managing the Mob

The ministers all play their game,
The parliament's a joke, a shame.
The president’s a mindless fool—
The mob just loves a puppet’s rule.

The ministers don’t waste their stay—
No time for pride, just loot and play.
Their terms are short, so steal it fast,
Before the chance has quickly passed.

The media now runs the show—
The fools consume the filth they throw,
Obeying plans of those in power,
Drunk on lies from hour to hour.

Yet behind the scenes, the beast
Tightens chains and won’t release.
Bound by dirt, they nod and crawl—
Obey, and you may rise—or fall.

The tale’s old, but still it grows,
And madness deepens as it flows.



--- Total 11 poems. ---

— The End —