Rage Like Klaus Kinski Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In our apple-pie and marmalade
Culture the mother’s womb is the first
Bell Jar the baby is placed
In
Glass pornography
With the Bird of Time
So when it comes out
It is trained
To not cry when the sterile knife
Cuts away the nature
Nor to rage against the death
In the market place;
And they do not bleat
When led into the shops
To put themselves on
The clothing of social skin
Where the Sanhedrin meet ;
They do not rage like Klaus
Kinski;
They are cut off from the
Ferality of the first man,
The Wrath of God is not in them
When they wash their hands
In the stagnant water behind
Their homes where they swim
And they are like every other
Man inside his cage,
Docile at feeding time,
Being fed the regurgitation of the
Masses,
Slowly flooding the muddy banks
Of the delta,
Like a herd of cattle being led
To gorge the streamline sharks
Waiting outside the stores
And parking lots,
Hunting in the great cutting blueness
Beyond the slime ringing
The spoon fed mouth.