The loose gods like us,
they are everywhere about us,
and our heels are winged by them,
our breath is shaped by them,
a lady’s dress is lifted at the hem for them,
and the world bows!
<a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-holding-blue-flowers-1337714/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
Up and down the streets their pundits walk,
biffed out in hip and shapely side;
tech-no-cracy about them,
flicker by flicker and slide by slide
showing what’s under the petalled hem,
while enamoured millions drool
in well-oiled gratitude
to the bray, bray, bray of Fool
(and he is a loose god, too!).
Sex is dethroned and driven hard;
death’s as loose as the gods themselves;
a million gadgets are bought and sold,
bought and sold, bought and sold;
and the world gives up on genuine silver-bronze,
and drives coarse gold, coarse gold.
The aged are sadder gods than those
who flitter inside the schools and out.
Our “senior citizens” don’t make amends
for having to voice their weakest shout;
and philanthropists are enthusiasts
for euthanasia’s claims:
After the sixtieth year or so
when the fieriest spirits dwindle and slow,
when we shout against humanity’s pains
and because of neglect cry out to die,
why should an old girl’s stuttering clause
not carcass her off with the world’s applause?
giving kindness a needle’s edge!
I’m a young man quite unhappy here,
and close to the darkening ledge.
I’m crying out daily to end my life
because the world is a barren knife,
why not accept my cry as fact
and mortuary me as well?
If I were old, you’d do it, yes,
but I would wish your brains in hell
and pulped between a bloody press.
And the reason why we pule and cry
is because we long for some human help,
not a white coat and a clinical wish
and death from some well-trained whelp.
And because we know that pain is gross
but death from a fellow human worse,
we should burn these god-like, sordid men
and bend these fools in their hell-fire curse.
But the loose gods, loose gods, loose gods, yes,
they’re evil do-gooders through and through.
Literature has its roots in pain.
And they’ll unteach literature, too.
(from “The Light Of Day (I)” to be published soon)