"philanthropists" poems

Museums as art Art as museums Sail the trail to my mausoleum Psychopaths and physicists Psychiatrists and philosophers Philanthropists and pilots and painters  Declare now, that these are our days – Our hours, and our days These are our city, our hours Our time, our days.  This is our world – At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it And searched it and found it wanting Of civilization that I could so easily supply By means of wounds and iron And brawn and truth (and just a tiny touch of influenza darling) By means of our Lord, Who grants us all that we desire If only we **** enough of those he did not choose. This is our world – And we shall make it what we will Make it in our own image Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong Raise it to hate no one But to love itself so deeply That all other love seems hateful in comparison. This is our child, love Yours and mine.  Here the first shall be last And the last shall be first But once the first are last they shall be Last Last Last And once the last are first They shall make it so they can never be last again This is our primitive accumulation Of necessary materialism Let’s cultivate matter To make objects that we can place on shelves And in cases – These are our cases And we love them as we love ourselves  Museums as mass graves Mass graves as museums Kiss me in my mausoleum Priests and prisoners Prostitutes and prophets Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans  This is our time – And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons Buying ample earplugs To seal in the silence So we can somewhat say “look there is peace – Look we have done it In our time it is accomplished” –   This is our peace – And we know it by the signs The lions and lambs lay quietly together In our brass-barred zoos For as long as shelves and cases Are intact and the first are first And the last are last And the civilized are organized and holy There is peace – Oh, look We made peace! And as for Solomon and Socrates – We take their words to weave through our new wisdom And when we re-chart the constellations We shall give them each a star And salute them once a year When they come around the universe Oh, look How wise we are! Mass graves as art Art as mass graves There have been no better days There has been no greater time Politicians and pornographers Professors and pirates Psychologists and pastors and pianists  This is our time – And we are doing with it the very best we know how The last are toiling and trying And the first are trying to think to try – But there is a shortness in our hours And a violence in our peace There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom And disease in our cities And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases. This is our world – We crafted it and declared our truth to be true We sculpted this, our colosseum Please inscribe my mausoleum With “we know not what we do”

0

May 31, 2015

May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC

ariel-evangeline-baptista

of dissolution and mausoleum blueprints

Museums as art Art as museums Sail the trail to my mausoleum Psychopaths and physicists Psychiatrists and philosophers Philanthropists and pilots and painters  Declare now, that these are our days – Our hours, and our days These are our city, our hours Our time, our days.  This is our world – At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it And searched it and found it wanting Of civilization that I could so easily supply By means of wounds and iron And brawn and truth (and just a tiny touch of influenza darling) By means of our Lord, Who grants us all that we desire If only we **** enough of those he did not choose. This is our world – And we shall make it what we will Make it in our own image Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong Raise it to hate no one But to love itself so deeply That all other love seems hateful in comparison. This is our child, love Yours and mine.  Here the first shall be last And the last shall be first But once the first are last they shall be Last Last Last And once the last are first They shall make it so they can never be last again This is our primitive accumulation Of necessary materialism Let’s cultivate matter To make objects that we can place on shelves And in cases – These are our cases And we love them as we love ourselves  Museums as mass graves Mass graves as museums Kiss me in my mausoleum Priests and prisoners Prostitutes and prophets Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans  This is our time – And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons Buying ample earplugs To seal in the silence So we can somewhat say “look there is peace – Look we have done it In our time it is accomplished” –   This is our peace – And we know it by the signs The lions and lambs lay quietly together In our brass-barred zoos For as long as shelves and cases Are intact and the first are first And the last are last And the civilized are organized and holy There is peace – Oh, look We made peace! And as for Solomon and Socrates – We take their words to weave through our new wisdom And when we re-chart the constellations We shall give them each a star And salute them once a year When they come around the universe Oh, look How wise we are! Mass graves as art Art as mass graves There have been no better days There has been no greater time Politicians and pornographers Professors and pirates Psychologists and pastors and pianists  This is our time – And we are doing with it the very best we know how The last are toiling and trying And the first are trying to think to try – But there is a shortness in our hours And a violence in our peace There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom And disease in our cities And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases. This is our world – We crafted it and declared our truth to be true We sculpted this, our colosseum Please inscribe my mausoleum With “we know not what we do”