Desolation

Desolation

It is a throw-back to the Romantic Age
where upon a rock solitary in a scape
that is painted in grey and mortality
there you find a figure pathetic and on stage
It is the I that against the community
says to the seas and skies, this is ME
then glances down, finding the rage
of individuality too much in isolation
decides upon a countenance agape
with sorrow and, and, a touch of desolation

As if the moods can like the icecream flavours
be bought and consumed without sage
thoughts to what was the dance of neuron
that brought the mind to this awful slope
of misery, nor considered the experience
which moulded the melancholic cage
that keeps one trapped in repetition
of behaviours unsuitable to the hope
of being, existing in a loop of lousiness
now see the rock as a chair and the saviour

Is the enterprise potential of the dope
found on the computer, and the largesse
of the virtuality, as it were reality gifted
to the masses, generous as the fastfood,
the slavery of the primate, primarily stuck
in a syndrome fitting for the neocortical
revolution of loss of direct communication
so now the downturned glance from a face
that is society, the indifference political
is the kid now adult sitting totally online

The obesity of boredom bloated on a click
the exercise of the hand to eye, a marathon
for the I now merged in prosthetic with HAL
since in feed-back it feeds the saline drip
that will keep the body going just and the mind
has from the rock departed, become a place
for the furniture of injected dream and fantasy
as if they had dropped upon the I a neutron
bomb, obliterated the person, the very soul
if you believe, and left in its stead an eichmann

Which is conditioned to think it is I but is WE
a conjoinment of corporate design and evil
if you believe, that with no heart, takes all
your time, your will and of course your money,
Yet, there you sit, imagine that this expression
of your loneliness and this, what, desolation
is somehow original, that it is ME, oh naive lamb,
you are in your innocence, such a, such a dupe,
to imagine when you write about your depression,
or out your sexuality, or when you write a novel,

Or tinker with poetry, that this is a Romantic Age,
when we are now enscounced in our little cave
of narcissism, mirroring the masturbating media
that satisfies only itself, in perpetuality, you slave,
you robot, to think you in actuality are a mannequin
fostered by subliminal advertisement and demand
you sleep, eat, shit and make love to the very click
of your dear beloved machine, and you the aristocrat
think this is a star trek frontier of possibility, you pratt,
it is orchestrated by the want of the mouth, cunt and prick,

And you stand but sit, you think but you muddle, the light
is not at the end of the tunnel, your language babbled
then in a revolt, you try to run, you aim to total fitness
through imitation of redrawn physique, he or she the God
of supreme good looks, which can entrap all the proletarian
in the capital idea that Disney moral values and Christianity
eaten with mass-processed eco-food and good morning exercise
can bring the You to becoming, wait for it, a Celebrity
for this you work out and diet, for this you aim, a happiness
manufactured by the supply and demand of the enriched,

Who from time immemorial paint themselves liberal
while employing an au-pair, a maid or servant, and hookers,
their flip-side, the rapacious appetite of the pornocrat
ennobled by exploitation and freedom of expression,
create images that will quite liberally and literally fuck us,
encourage us, en mass, to torture and to end, in desolation
as the bar of what is expected, moves beyond the orifice
and to the impossibility, then like liquor the child is entrained
in a form of confirmation, by thirteen to believe in the silicon
and that all holes lead to the holy city, and to celebrity