Of morality
Jeremy1012
Posts: 7,170
Is it for meditation or easing of conscience
That I reflect here of man’s ills?
I cannot, in my darkest hour,
Relate one tenth that I should
And so, by force of pride, folly
Or misguided naivety, I attempt my
Shot at redeeming myself, in tracts
Of youthful morality by way of recompense.
Is it for I or others that I
Beat out this ancient tribal song of
Peace and naked, shallow, spirituality that
Makes me cold with embarrassment
And shake with paralysing guilt?
Is it for these children of our sins,
The battered and broken remnants
Of our debased societies, lying,
Awake, in our urban cesspits under a thousand stars?
Is it for the countless spawn of death
And war, bred in hell-holes of murder, genocide and slavery,
Consigned to a life that constantly
Beats them down with iron fists and
Holds them forever in chains?
Is it for the urchins, junkies, winos and whores,
Ravaged by living a life that presents
Only one single constant –
That it forever fucks them and takes
A sick pleasure in the act,
Living dead, teeth rotting out their heads,
Too tired to beg and too hungry to sleep,
Staring out life in a fight that only
Ends when the perverse, sweet kiss of passing
Touches their cold and cracking lips.
Or is it for me that I write my poem?
A kind of “get out of jail free card”
To ease my guilt, my feeling of
Constant and overbearing impotence.
I am aware, and I am happy.
Does that make me a bad person?
That I reflect here of man’s ills?
I cannot, in my darkest hour,
Relate one tenth that I should
And so, by force of pride, folly
Or misguided naivety, I attempt my
Shot at redeeming myself, in tracts
Of youthful morality by way of recompense.
Is it for I or others that I
Beat out this ancient tribal song of
Peace and naked, shallow, spirituality that
Makes me cold with embarrassment
And shake with paralysing guilt?
Is it for these children of our sins,
The battered and broken remnants
Of our debased societies, lying,
Awake, in our urban cesspits under a thousand stars?
Is it for the countless spawn of death
And war, bred in hell-holes of murder, genocide and slavery,
Consigned to a life that constantly
Beats them down with iron fists and
Holds them forever in chains?
Is it for the urchins, junkies, winos and whores,
Ravaged by living a life that presents
Only one single constant –
That it forever fucks them and takes
A sick pleasure in the act,
Living dead, teeth rotting out their heads,
Too tired to beg and too hungry to sleep,
Staring out life in a fight that only
Ends when the perverse, sweet kiss of passing
Touches their cold and cracking lips.
Or is it for me that I write my poem?
A kind of “get out of jail free card”
To ease my guilt, my feeling of
Constant and overbearing impotence.
I am aware, and I am happy.
Does that make me a bad person?
"I remember one night at Muzdalifa with nothing but the sky overhead, I lay awake amid sleeping Muslim brothers and I learned that pilgrims from every land — every colour, and class, and rank; high officials and the beggar alike — all snored in the same language"
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A sick pleasure in the act,
Living dead, teeth rotting out their heads,
Too tired to beg and too hungry to sleep,
Staring out life in a fight that only
Ends when the perverse, sweet kiss of passing
Touches their cold and cracking lips."
This section can be summed up in three words:
Brilliant. Raw. Powerful.
Keep 'em comin'!
To the worms
I feel sick,
and not a little tired.
One hundred years
'til I find my cure.
Yearning to make that connection
to the sullen, divine blanket
of night.
We drift, directionless,
under luminous sky,
like Mohammedan angels,
heavenly but not unselfish,
dreaming of a reason - a raison d'etre,
perhaps a muse to focus my attention
so that the cut is painless.
Sedation breeds rebirth in death...
or at least I pray that it is so.
untitled
What is this?
This intangible presence that sticks in my throat
like a morning fix,
passive, cold, an exercise in total sterility?
It doesn't bother me as such
(or should I say, it doesn't harm me?)
but it makes me uneasy.
It's not the unknown that unsettles me,
for I really know very little,
but the ever present sense
that my feeling (for want of a name)
is just along for the ride.
I'd love to think there is some profound meaning
but experience has taught me otherwise.
It may just be me chastising myself for
recent self-abuse and over-analysing.
I am prone to over-analysing...
Perhaps I should just go along for the ride.
God knows, I haven't been anywhere nice recently,
it's damp, cold and the fog makes my hair frizzy,
I'm irritable, cynical and my sense of humour is becoming very dark.
I'd tell you a joke but I'm tired and really
have no interest in tickling that particular bone.
Needless to say, you wouldn't laugh anyway.
You'd probably smile politely and turn,
back to your instant coffee in your
cardboard cup, safe in the knowledge
that you are happy with your lot and that,
no matter what life decides to throw in your face,
you can be sure as fuck that things can only get better.
And I? I'll return to my little plate of self-indulgence
and my "feeling". It doesn't bother me anyway.
It doesn't harm me.
NOTE: Everything I write in the P,P&M section are intended to be songs, not poetry.