not so much the stuff of Shakespeare
Baudelaire
Whitman
Pound
Elliot
or even Keats
no my friends this isn't poetry -
this is street rag:
the gritty stuff of back roads and
empty alleys where night meets
darkness and quiet souls wreaking
havoc amongst battered shadows
like sheep being led to slaughter
choking on laughter -
it's a bad world
it's a mad world
we create and sustain if for but to
ask forgiveness from some oddly
absent deity who remains distant
until at last Judgement Day -
as always as it is this world we live
you must be nuts not to think of it
crazy such every aspect has been
contaminated with mutated forms
of synthetic energy passed around
like fallout in a windstorm flooding
consciousness with impossible hope
dead dreams lingering upon metallic
sky a new conspiracy theory trilogy
spliced and re-engineered before the
beginning of Time "When a growing
individual finds that he is destined to
remain a child forever, that he cannot
do without protection against strange
superior powers he lends the powers
the features belonging to the figure of
his father; he creates for himself gods
whom he dreads, whom he seeks to
propitiate and whom he nevertheless
entrusts with his own protection. Thus
his longing for a father is the motive
identical with his need for protection
against the consequences of his own
human weakness. The defense against
childish helplessness is what lends its
characteristic features to the adult's
reaction to the helplessness which he
has to acknowledge- a reaction which
is precisely the formation of religion."
Freud, The Future Of An Illusion
