A diverse range of Catholic spiritual topics relating to the spiritual life; for all who thirst in desire for God who is Truth, Beauty and Goodness. Herein one shall find mystical and spiritual expositions, along with a variety of poetry, tales and theologies; all of which have been written in a spirit of prayer for the sake of God's loving will.
Thursday, 4 August 2016
The World is Mad, so Mad Indeed, but the Cheshire Grins for the Opium People
Cheshire Cat Smiling, John Tenniel
world around me, outside me,
a little more crazy every day.
blue’s considered grey,
perverted is brought to light of day,
there it’s hailed on public stand –
stage? A gallows? –
all that’s noble, true and good.
right to kill, to snuff a seedling life;
life about to burn away.
nothing grand about this progress.
What regression has come our way?
fair bright reason’s been evicted,
on ship in iron chains and sold as slave,
now she serves grand sentiment –
servant’s blood but wears the pants today –
ever since Shelley has gone astray.
world is mad, so mad indeed,
sprinkled mercury on every hat and head,
even more, worse of all, love is dead,
weeps as widow sure, with sister faith
hope whose husbands met the grave.
their children long since passed away,
still the pyres smolder in every heart and bay,
grown adults with money play the harlot,
cheap oyster cocktails served by men in suits
fancy shoes, directed by the demons
the eye and hammer,
lines and lines of coke,
plotted field all tilled with rows of mounded dirt,
by pagan sniff.
Ayn Rand watches on, as the people OD;
nurse at dying stands kind Nietzsche
consoles them with a loaded gun;
words the last, are spoken on their behalf –
unknown soldiers, prey to war of ‘peace’ –
the opium of the masses,” whispers Karl the Marx.
Cheshire grin, grin and grin my friend,
those shadow functions which people think they need
yin to yang, with beams surreal, that’s only white, that no one’s ever seen.
on his throne; Hitler’s dreams unfold –
now the world’s a death camp interred under guise of labour real;
master race those who chase the scape goat into mill –
caviar elites and bourgeois set
a Bable – it’s tower six feet tall
sprung from ape, well so they say.
nothing but a miracle will break this night with day.
the meantime, the opium people, those blessed fools,
the desert hollows and city streets,
must smoke ‘till the sky is grey,
the cleansing rain – illumination – to wash the idols from their skin;
to the puss wet sores, the pestilence brought,