"pathologic" poems
To lie or not to lie - that is the question:
Whether 'tis better to keep the truth
Shutting the light in the dark,
Or to bring upon pain or pleasure
Why, by bringing truth, gain unwanted reaction. To lie, deceit -
No more - and by secret to say what we want to say
The will of truth and lie
That flows from lips - 'tis an infection
One craved by all. To lie, deceit -
Deceit, perhaps too much. Ay, there's the problem.
For in that deceit of truth what pathologic lieing may come.
When we have gained such filthy pleasure from this lie,
Must force us thought. That's the reality
That makes chaos of such pleasure.
For who really wants to hear or speak an ugly truth,
The lover's love gone, the child's art trash,
The woman's ugly face, the man's unattractive body,
The co-worker's stench, and the embarrassing blemish
That gives opportunity for lie,
When they themselves would appreciate
Why give them heart ache? Who would give them truth,
To give them hurt,
But the chance they would enjoy the truth,
The unknown glee from fate's unlucky victims
For the victim's mind confuses the liar
And makes the liar want to speak truth
And to see that reaction instead.
Thus turning pathologic lieing into suthe saying,
And thus the addicting infection
Is cured with the disease of truth,
And infection seems less appealing
With this regard the lies soon stop
And lose what effect they once had.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
“…and no religion too…”
Was it easy to do?
Did it make you angry
Or did you agree?
Is God already dead?
Do you believe what Nietzsche said?
But then who killed him?
Was it us or them?
With their rejection
Or your revelation?
We live with man’s insistence
Of defining God’s existence
Creating us in his image
With a holy marriage
Of our disobedient soul
To an ancient scroll
Or does science
Define our conscience
As pure logic
With all else pathologic?
How can we believe
The zealots who cleave
To intellectual scorn
Or under whose God they were born?
“… and there is no country…”
From the pages of history
War and conquest
From time earliest
Past the age of reason
Marching each season
With imperialistic fury
And dominating hegemony
The meek unable to rule
Believing like any fool
The words of the deceased
Strewn from Eden to the East
Giving hope to the hopeless
Who have no access
To the dreams of the chosen
But instead remain frozen
In time to be glorified
By mere words that personified
Our need to care
In impotent prayer
Can you separate your senses
From those whose defenses
Are erected so high
That you cannot tell truth from a lie?
Can you dream of a world
Where a bohemian’s word
Stripped of accompaniment
And all earthly judgment
Has stood the test of time
Even when accused of the crime
Of a treasonous plea
For peace and all to see
The cruelty and horror
That power and desire
Have brought to our garden
Where the meek receive no pardon
Because they dared to beg
For a mere pittance to mask
Their pain and suffering
As they lived with the knowing
That a song about dreamers
Can never overcome the schemers
Who laughed at his naivety
And forced upon you their deity
All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2011. Mark Lecuona.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
Radicalism is the death of logic.
It is faith blind and pathologic.
For one must comprehend,
One truth - that is not the end.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC