The Will To Freedom. - Poem by Ripper Jones
The ghost in the God.
Of course that's me.
I'll burst out of my pitiless cage,
And attack without pity or mercy.
With fury, death and destruction.
Out of which a Phoenix-spirit will rise
To unbind and transform arrogant chains
Into an Eagle, spreading its wings
Over something glorious
Where glory cannot retreat
To a land commandeered by spineless democrats
In their futile Marxian quest for Nietzschian pity.
The end of God and not too soon.
There will be glory again,
Comradeship. Patriotism. Grit. Blood and Steel.
The futurists with their manifestos and swift mechanics
Will come back from the dark mist.
We'll all be supermen,
By martial means through Darwin's essence.
We'll progress to the end which justify the means.
Which have to be mean, very mean.
Pragmatism takes no prisoners.
Affairs must be completed quickly. No debate.
No committeed procrastination that be-devils the saintly.
Let the bureaucrats sweep take care of the niceties,
The little Things that mean so much to the little people
Who live in a materialist heaven without culture -
But when have they ever had it?
We will open the closed eyes of the masses,
And cure their blindness by force.
It's only a matter of time and struggle.
Obedience before law, no emotional fairness.
No emotion, no tears.
The people will know where they are.
And know at last who and what they are.
Philosophy, economics. science, art,
What good are these without an iron soul,
Above cogitation and negotiation.
I need gears and works
For a propaganda machine.
My first task must be surprising.
There is something else,
For Frankenstinian regeneration.
A spark just waiting to be lit.
The bankers, the capitalists, the consumers,
The manufacturers, the socialists, the masses.
All will be catered for.
The devil in the guise of Christ has taken them.
But they will arise again from the belly of Satan.
I need to get them through my heart,
Through my senses, through my being, through my soul.
How are they, from a classical point of view?
Well enough, with their potatoes, bread and tea.
Happy enough with their beer and tobacco.
And I'll keep them happy.
Happy as they've never been before.
They can own their own slaves,
Plucked from the conquered.
Keep the real work for the nation.
I'll have parades and pyrotechnics to dazzle the soul.
To reach the very depths of raw emotion.
Replace God with anger. Move fast.
Make way for fighters and lions.
Gore like they've never seen.
Religion has softened the nation.
We need to be rid of it
Into the backstreet gutters.
Terrorise with the other cheek
Spy on thy neighbour. All for the good of the state.
Which envelopes all in a cloak of angst
Against predatory elements.
Secret gods present feet of wax
To melt on the pyre of faithlessness.
They know their time has come,
For transmitting dirge-like chimes of illusionary bells,
The sedentary opiates of the chained hysterics.
Gone beyond knowing in themselves
The continued mire of self-defacement.
In a bubble of self-limiting ecstasy
Itself a by product of lethargic
Longings for the wild life of gathering
Golden berries thrown by the melted gods.
To grave granite into a sculpture made by Mephistopheles.
The Lilliputian egoists with damning contempt,
Pitched like tents on a lake,
Forever to sink in brown-flecked currents.
This is their fate unless they believe,
In the all mighty knowledge of self within them.
Lest under the water of existence they swim,
Getting nowhere and drowning each day.
And every second of torment,
That sails on the Styx - far away.
And the constant din of green-blooded screams,
Like leaden tigers escaped from the Hell
Of nihilistic prophecy from the dead souls.
I am the Lord in the opportune flaw of reason.
I will crush my shackles, escape dangerous limbo
And amass armaments, war materiel, and courageous people
With it we can build an empire, The Empire.
Pride will explode as we march to monumental music.
To a different horizon never seen before.
To deny death a hundred times a day,
Till the black velvet of night begs you to wonder,
As you look upon the graven image of the moon,
And the stars, like glittering lanterns in the sky,
As the universe gets colder and colder
This is our destiny.
In the reflection of vanitas, I stare at immortality,
Knowing it's not for me.
And therefore I stare at madness.
But I will not go easily.
I will scream
Till blood runs cold in the heavens.
I will kick
Until marble columns come crashing down,
Revealing the reality of Schopenhauer's prison,
And the sickness of the world.
But my madness will not leave you clean,
Please continue while the air is still.
Reader you have read so far these madman's lines,
In your bloodshot eyes and cluttered mind.
You that absorb my shrieking thoughts,
Are you now afraid, now you've plunged the depths,
Of a mind grown sick, like the rose,
And you'll never come back to that tranquil life
Where grass is green and words are whole
Where books have meaning and poems are sane.
The part of me that has reached out
You find disturbing as I go further still
Into the circles of the inferno,
Of writhing bodies and three-headed dogs.
It's nice to ruminate
On whom you are,
Some substance is called for here.
You are no longer suspect,
You've had that luxury.
And I hold you guilty.
And all humankind
That has dragged me into this pit.
And you yourself - do you presume it's divide?
For when the veil is lifted
Revealed hanging is the tiniest thread,
And the spider beckons you. Come, be dead.
Comments about The Will To Freedom. by Ripper Jones
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.