Monday, 08 December 2008

• Funeral for a Penguin

  This world’s clock is ticking,

  Disaster around the corner,

  Waiting for its next victim.

  From what I have seen…

  The spider weaving its web.

  As you rush through your daily life,

  You destroy the masterpiece

  With the flick of your wrist,

  Or perhaps with your face,

  As he might prefer, staring down at you from a tree limb

  From which he starts his new venture.

   

  It’s a wonder, that such a putrid

  Stench could emanate from an existence

  That is actually an illusion,

  No existence at all, a Superman of a world,

  Shadowing a fiery reality,

  A matrix, a machine in which we swim like

  Goldfish caught in a current, doing what we are…

  Told to do.

  Apathetic “conformedindividuals”

  Abusing ourselves and each other,

  Building a structure which says simply,

   

  “We are one.”

   

  And though we pretend to love this shiny

  Silver monument… it does not resemble

  Peace, or love, or even entertainment.

   

  And though we are made, anxiously,

  To agree, further and further we reach

  To peel off the shiny silverness of our lives.

   

  Eventually, to take a knife, cut shapes into the silver,

  And realize…

  That it is, in fact, thin as tissue paper.

  Shapes of the ocean, shapes of the sky,

  And most of all, shapes of freedom…

  Black, noxious, freedom.

   

  • 7:31 AM
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