Labyrinthine Politics

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 08, 2018

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Submitted: September 08, 2018

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Fleeting melody

lost in endless time,

consumed like rusting garbage cans

of global politics;

politics devouring

even life itself.

 

There are other universes

filled with students too.

Pretentious cowards patrol the halls

of every universe.

 

Is beauty the enemy?

Or is sin our death?

The roulette wheels we choose to spin

that conjure evil thoughts,

and lead to evil in the world

buried in the shadows:

the depths of our own poisoned souls,

are they lying in wait?

They wait for resurrection,

or maybe just transgression:

the blindness of our lives.

 

 

Prison guards fear the truth

will blossom like blood red flowers

that overpower

the evil weeds;

the weeds of elitism triumph

in the midst of deceit,

rampant murky chaos,

and self-defeating self-indulgence;

neither alcohol nor drugs

will drown the pain

of not truly knowing,

of being cut off from the vital truth

 

What is truth?

when a select few control the flow

of information

like tyrants

intoxicated

poor souls overwhelmed with

their artificially high status,

joyless walkers on stilts:

pseudo-liberal zombies

establishing their tenuous dominance

one mischievous assault at a time.

And what if everything is a lie

or illusion?

Surely that cannot be—

there must be at least some truth

somewhere at the core

of our early childhood experiences

or natural humankind’s destiny.

 

 

For those who close the doors

of seemingly endless power

uncover nothing except the cold

lies, mind-numbingly fabricated

half-truths designed to mollify

and distract the masses.

 

For those who open the doors

of seemingly endless power

get high like omnipotent gods

of ancient legends

sent to us from

the night sky

of fallen incandescent light

rock stars ogling after redemption

or after religionless politics:

a regressive dogma

of secular pseudo-enterprise

where bad internet reputation

damns you

to the eternal inferno

of the troubled tortured bourgeoisie

the useless tempting vengeful thoughts

the royal elitist purple

proles that don’t know they’re proles

lumpenproletariat petty bourgeoisie,

socialist shibboleths for brainwashed sheep

led by fascist sociopaths

that have been deemed immaculate,

but only by the ‘moral’ blind,

the righteous blind,

the spineless blind

collectivists

ornery with their violence

or words

or wild in their self-intoxicated

self-righteous cowardice;

anti-American tribalists celebrating

the defeat of freedom,

the end of individualism.

The collectivists and racists are the same

communist-fascist fame whores,

faint-hearted in their bloodless immortality,

(imposing eternal silence.)

Bloody in their collectivist violence

against principled individualists

who must win in the end

so the ‘altruistic’ nazi teachings

don’t destroy us

or Donald Trump.

 

 

Conservatives in cities

wear their pride or fear

in the midst of pristine garbage cans

of holy politics.

 

Loving kindness from the Left

we seldom ever get.

To them we have been exiled,

burdened by our guilt,

branded as apostates,

labeled as bereft

of orthodox morality

that they have claimed their own

to serve their sacrificial plans.

 

Is it true they don’t remember:

their original sins,

their conventional crimes,

their chaotic ‘altruism’

embraced by murderers.

 

 

Patriotic communists

camouflage themselves

as humanitarian dissidents

ready to play war,

ready to bleed enemies

to heal them with a war—

a war on mass hysteria

that nobody can win,

unless the win is temporary

bureaucratic hell

of malicious censorship zombies,

bland socialist zombies,

meek conservative zombies,

vicious environmentalist zombies,

philistine libertarian zombies,

boring liberal zombies,

fools slouching toward utopia

with pockets full of loonies.

 

 

It’s so easy to say

someone else is

a narcissistic sociopath,

a bad person,

a terrible human being.

It’s not so easy to say

the same thing about yourself.

Does that make me feel better?

No, not really;

I still feel awful

because I feel like I’m evil.

Am I being punished for the bad I did in past lives?

Or just the bad I did in this one?

 

 

Phony meme and dashed hope;

barcodes and roses;

absinthe cocktail wedding

of your dreams—

golden orange yellow

fire red alcohol:

mirrors of the future,

mirrors of the soul.

 

My inarticulate soul,

my afflicted mind;

self-absorbed losers

terrified by their thoughts:

drug-induced psychosis.

Maybe in some other world I love

a woman and she loves me,

maybe in some other world

I am free from my pain.

Maybe I could love anyone

who loves me without force:

without coarse brutality

and disrespect

 

In this world,

I fear everything.

I am a loser.

 


© Copyright 2018 Edwin Jacob. All rights reserved.

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