how am i supposed to remember and honor a history
written with these feathers false with lie and deceit,
promulgated on these filthy pamphlets
and memorialized, revered as greatest prose,
defended, lauded, evangelized, celebrated?
how am i to
put on some pedestal
this
toilet-paper literature,
and how i am
i to hear these broken poetics
of mute and
wing-torn nightingales,
how they
twitter their warbles of unhope
and their weak spring-song
muttered and
stuttered deep from the syrinx
of their debased
subterfuge?
their mimicry of greatness,
their faux emulations of might
through their pathetic and futile mobbing
against Truth itself comes off
as not dishonest exactly,
just existentially pathetic.
the
ornithomancy of fossilized birds
reap bleak results.
the prophecy speaks of draught,
of death and
of doom.
their prodigal hearts were wounded
from the lance of self-critique,
striking hard from the left side of histories!
and they bled
the black muck
of their own
reprobate wanton.
that is all it came to amount to:
a history of failure and destitution;
tirades of empty moralism, exhibitions
in shallowness,
contests in vice and vanity; glorifications of hedonistic inhibition…
coyness, resolve, constraint, mystery:
all abandoned!―
here is no
strife!
here is no sacrifice!
“just
we fuck, drink and laugh enough!”
in the end times, only the surface nuisances
of a planet burning at its core seemed interesting―nothing was
real in those last days.
fuck the hedonistic rapture you
ushered in!
for i am part of it
and this part of me i hate…
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