If it were that Churchill had saved the world
and we had been delivered from the purge
of those most foul and infected fingers
would the Doomsday Clock still near its strike?
If ever there was an era
to inspire a revival in poetry
and scare us out of our anxiety
then this horrid decade’s
sense of impending doom should do,
When I think of the old providence,
the land where gods were megaliths
and human wants were always gone
the moment the chief called for blood,
I think that our ancestors had known
that beating hearts were a pestilence
to be separated from the chest
before the plague had taken hold
of more than just their overlords.
We are now so tolerant,
so willing, that intelligent people
are unable to speak freely
I see beggars suffering silently
uncounted out in the streets,
these old rags slumped over plead
but only each to each
razor wire fences ascend
as phoenixes from the ashes
Among the world’s most pressing ruins
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
parting their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying
hour of enjambment with earth and sky.
itness now the death of buzzing bees,
the bloodbath human and the brood’s disease–
witnessed upon the earth, in wild and wood,
I do not wish to be
the voice of the Bering Sea’s struggle,
nor would I deny the plight
of sea ice and polar bears at once living and dying for home.
Do not let the wind towers make you sick;
it’s hate and fear that resonates with men
and makes demons of rotors spinning on the wind
there’s no sickness, except men mid-panic,
We are the heads
above La Brea’s pits,
our limbs all stuck in tar.
No more porcelain gods,
or the prejudice for the painted gods,
or the gods of plastic and oil;
Oh, man, they’re gonna make it look like suicide
and type a note on how life is not all joyrides
No candle can stay the cohorts
of human dogmas new or old,
not reason weighed nor goodness shown
Where have the lilacs gone?
Are they with the belladonna
that bloomed when we were young,
before the truth was known,
before the side effects,
before the taking of remedies?
We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
I met a hermit where a stream diverged,
passing the hours and the minutes of day
and honing his whit he stopped to stretch, and said—
How could we
leave you at the shore,
or forget you
or the image of those little boats.
My vast kingdom, larger than France and Spain
led a crusade against conquest and genocide,
I did not have birth right, nor did I take it by sword,
Some say the times are changing fast,
Some say they always have.