Thursday, 4 August 2016

The World is Mad, so Mad Indeed, but the Cheshire Grins for the Opium People

Cheshire Cat Smiling, John Tenniel

The world around me, outside me,

Grows a little more crazy every day.

What’s blue’s considered grey,

What’s perverted is brought to light of day,

And there it’s hailed on public stand –

A stage? A gallows? –

As all that’s noble, true and good.

A right to kill, to snuff a seedling life;

A life about to burn away.

There’s nothing grand about this progress.

Progress? What regression has come our way?

O fair bright reason’s been evicted,

Put on ship in iron chains and sold as slave,

And now she serves grand sentiment –

A servant’s blood but wears the pants today –

Who ever since Shelley has gone astray.

The world is mad, so mad indeed,

Someone’s sprinkled mercury on every hat and head,

And even more, worse of all, love is dead,

Mercy weeps as widow sure, with sister faith

And hope whose husbands met the grave.

Their children?

Well, their children long since passed away,

Though still the pyres smolder in every heart and bay,

Whilst grown adults with money play the harlot,

Drinking cheap oyster cocktails served by men in suits

With fancy shoes, directed by the demons

Behind the eye and hammer,

With lines and lines of coke,

Like plotted field all tilled with rows of mounded dirt,

Inhaled by pagan sniff.

Meanwhile Ayn Rand watches on, as the people OD;

For nurse at dying stands kind Nietzsche

Who consoles them with a loaded gun;

As words the last, are spoken on their behalf –

Those unknown soldiers, prey to war of ‘peace’ –

“Religion’s the opium of the masses,” whispers Karl the Marx.

Ah, Cheshire grin, grin and grin my friend,

Shatter those shadow functions which people think they need

As yin to yang, with beams surreal, that’s only white, that no one’s ever seen.

Pharaoh’s on his throne; Hitler’s dreams unfold –

But now the world’s a death camp interred under guise of labour real;

With master race those who chase the scape goat into mill –

Whilst caviar elites and bourgeois set

Build a Bable – it’s tower six feet tall

And sprung from ape, well so they say.

Surely nothing but a miracle will break this night with day.

In the meantime, the opium people, those blessed fools,

In the desert hollows and city streets,

Need must smoke ‘till the sky is grey,

For the cleansing rain – illumination – to wash the idols from their skin;

Tending to the puss wet sores, the pestilence brought,

Ever since the fleece from Colchis was took away.