A woman’s voice reminds me
to serve and not to speak
And I myself
were just another freak
Steely Dan – Fire in the Hole
to serve and not to speak
And I myself
were just another freak
Steely Dan – Fire in the Hole
They all look the other way as he climbs on out of the ground and attempts to brush the dirt from his clothing; to spit the worms from his mouth; his dead eyes hold yet a glimmer of hope; a teardrop for the future.
It would not do to be seen with, or to sympathise, with this zombie.
He looks down at the bullet holes in his feet and sighs, perhaps he will learn one day that the gods really do destroy those who speak too loud.
They do not whisper his name in secret admiration.
They do not whisper his name.
They do not admire his stupidity.
Melancholy madman, muddled and misplaced, he attempts to separate the effect from the cause; to subdue the spirit that imbues almost everything he knows; to quell the force that wells in his throat and behind his eyes.
The sheer face of past thoughts and nostalgic creations, of grandiose dreams and naïve wishes will haunt him like cobwebs in a room full of lost toys.
He looks around, casting for the narrow path from which he fell; that narrow path of loose gravel that constitutes non-conformity; scepticism and downright contrariness; that narrow and precipitous path that crumbles behind allowing no other option but forward motion.
He staggers to take those first steps back on the path; his two left legs giving him an awkward gait, a ministry of erratic behaviour.
The gods of chaos wet themselves laughing, their granite shoulders crack and shudder; there is no end to the cold and clinical amusement that can be gained by observing this puny species.
This zombie raises his middle finger to their laughter.
In his gut there festers a black and boiling mass of self-doubt and indignant rage.
In his head there shines a light that he cannot extinguish; a bright and clinical light that often threatens to expose his heart as a mere organ.
The path is not chosen, it is the path that chooses him; this antisocial and self-conscious fool.
He falls once more past the cold handed anaesthetist to the surgeon’s flashing knife; there to pick amongst the words he has spewed into this electronic pan, chemical reactions to black stitched suture where the world crashes in and refuses to be ignored.
These lessons are bleak; the hold no real joy but to grow.
So tie bells to his hat and chains to his feet; pepper-spray his eyes and stitch up his mouth; crush his fingers in the vice of your bureaucratic oath – and when his mind is subdued, set him free on the world; a lesson to others on the folly of thought; the dangers of outspoken and misguided honesty.
They return to the mundane; the mown plateau where all heads are visible at equal height; where no voice dares rise above the murmur of conformity; the murmur of discontented acceptance.
That boy who shouted “the emperor is naked” has grown up to be this zombie.
It would not do to be seen with, or to sympathise, with this zombie.
He looks down at the bullet holes in his feet and sighs, perhaps he will learn one day that the gods really do destroy those who speak too loud.
They do not whisper his name in secret admiration.
They do not whisper his name.
They do not admire his stupidity.
Melancholy madman, muddled and misplaced, he attempts to separate the effect from the cause; to subdue the spirit that imbues almost everything he knows; to quell the force that wells in his throat and behind his eyes.
The sheer face of past thoughts and nostalgic creations, of grandiose dreams and naïve wishes will haunt him like cobwebs in a room full of lost toys.
He looks around, casting for the narrow path from which he fell; that narrow path of loose gravel that constitutes non-conformity; scepticism and downright contrariness; that narrow and precipitous path that crumbles behind allowing no other option but forward motion.
He staggers to take those first steps back on the path; his two left legs giving him an awkward gait, a ministry of erratic behaviour.
The gods of chaos wet themselves laughing, their granite shoulders crack and shudder; there is no end to the cold and clinical amusement that can be gained by observing this puny species.
This zombie raises his middle finger to their laughter.
In his gut there festers a black and boiling mass of self-doubt and indignant rage.
In his head there shines a light that he cannot extinguish; a bright and clinical light that often threatens to expose his heart as a mere organ.
The path is not chosen, it is the path that chooses him; this antisocial and self-conscious fool.
He falls once more past the cold handed anaesthetist to the surgeon’s flashing knife; there to pick amongst the words he has spewed into this electronic pan, chemical reactions to black stitched suture where the world crashes in and refuses to be ignored.
These lessons are bleak; the hold no real joy but to grow.
So tie bells to his hat and chains to his feet; pepper-spray his eyes and stitch up his mouth; crush his fingers in the vice of your bureaucratic oath – and when his mind is subdued, set him free on the world; a lesson to others on the folly of thought; the dangers of outspoken and misguided honesty.
They return to the mundane; the mown plateau where all heads are visible at equal height; where no voice dares rise above the murmur of conformity; the murmur of discontented acceptance.
That boy who shouted “the emperor is naked” has grown up to be this zombie.
4 comments:
Tell me, where do these thoughts come from? I sometimes wonder if you have once tried nature's magic pills...beautiful work, as usual
Like reading a wound. Like a rape, the way minds are formed.
Benevolent emperor, letting him grow up and all. Our emperor wouldn't let that happen.
A Moving Peace!!!!
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