Michael Walkerjohn

Gold Star - 13,711 Points (January 01 / Earth?)

The Lie - Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

We
call
time
that imprisoning
personality; that mental
image which affects how we
perceive the reality, of one’s self
what is inside the depths of
one’s spine; you, without
an eye of mind, will
surely never find
that key within
the stress and
lie, which is
your daily life
The mind without
its eyes lies; how timely
are the signs of these mimes
an imprisoning reality that is not
perceived in the delusional dysfunction
that the each of US sees, rarely giving this a
conscious thought, giving this instead to
frivolous talk and immature scoffs at
what time is truly meant to be…
Questionable influence rules
this world; an acceptable
value to those who cull
the insipidly wicked
from the whole
and utilize such
to control the mess
that is, the mass of all
humanity; any seconding
on this tragedy, this badgering
buggery; bewildering, burgeoning
unbelievable, unimaginable herding
of feed lot beasts to the slaughter…
And time has come to be an antipathy
of these facts as seen; by all, who have a
capacity to do so then foolish choose to hold
the truth within their limited thoughts and bare
as their self-righteousness just an obligatory so what
or why therefore or all this just is as it has been always…
Oh hear the sorrowing violins sing, upon fraying strings that
harrowing vibration bringing an inner contentious burning
to the thoughts, of each of you yearning for an answer to
this continuing darkness and wandering and wondering
of the one thing which you in all truth need to examine
within the feast and or famine drama experienced in
this lifetime; in this quagmire you each stretch out
for simplification, for clarity, for an easy way to
make each day through and then, you each do
the same mundane, boring, self-disrespecting
unconscious meandering over and over and
over again and again, regardless of the pain
and suffering you cause your self and then
you beg for mercy and help and sustenance
so in your immediate forgetfulness of these
requests you continually regress, in all of your
responsibilities to all of humanity; such animals
a mass of insensitive cannibals, feeding solely off
of a living energy in those individuals less capable
less able, most gullible, to your frenzied existence
and you yet insist that this is how it was intended
to be, that time does not require sympathy or need
compassionate attention and certainly does not require
a key for you and yours; to be comfortable beyond imagination
insulting the very intentions, and many suggestions of those few
who understand the implications to this eerie situation, this tragic
ideation this complete rejection of the human species as a lasting
conflagration insisting instead that each become that burned out
faggot at the end of each day, that featureless, formless, lump of
clay; that soulless thoughtless, foolish, boorish, brute; a nothing,
a smug smudge upon the course of human history, a quickly forgotten
miserly stump in a clear cut forest twice hit by lightning and
burned completely to a matter less husk of stinking dead flesh…
I do so digress of the point of this gest, the body of
this scratch, the idea of this mess, the reality in
the insist, that IAM right about all of this…

Topic(s) of this poem: human condition, humour, real life, societal


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Poem Submitted: Sunday, October 25, 2015



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