I saw a man hold a made thing
twined in tough cord which held *him* straight
as a prisoner might show itself
in restraint. He threw the odd device
downwards into the air. It rolled
out its tether backwards dropping
till *that* jerked hard at its ending,
the escapade suddenly dead,
as if a trap had been banged wide
open unexpectedly beneath
yet the round body pulled itself up
upwards into a salvation
from whence it took the drop again
like clay birds all day flying up
identical factory products
without their own conscious power
or a dog fetching a ball more times
than it can count, self-persuaded
that it's autonomous and free.
“This,” said the man, with nonchalance,
“reminds me of my staff at work.
They do not realise control
is beyond their hands. All they want
is the string and how it works right here
with them dependent on its knots
which they cannot retie. Weak minds,
each self-aware, they believe; so proud;
but hindered by what's possible,
planning regime variations
while they are first governed, and then
let loose, completely, on a leash.
What they eat, what they drink, we sell
with ease; what they decide, I have
suggested to them many ways,
as I too am chained entangled
stapled by hard steel to constructs
I have been offered and agreed
to love, to keep the money thick
in my wallet, big coins weighing
towards the buried iron core
of limited understanding...
What do I know of final things?
I'm sure I am retained. Thus I
am not enslaved. I do enslave.”
Thus, you, unfriend, who always said
the best thing to each one of us
to keep us obedient, are now
neither a yoyo nor player;
a fake; a manipulator
who reworks incoherent rage,
which might, just, make sense; but doesn't.
There is no part original
in what you have written or said.
There is scant substance to your speech
with much meaningful malign intent...
You fooled me, yes; and many more,
till I grew weary of your moods...
Some may come yet and hear utterance
that builds up some implications
according to what you purport...
You are a disappointing git!
All your words mean rather little;
and, what you say, you've said before
twenty years ago; further still.
Many were impressed by your talk,
but I think them to be trite fools
for all they speak in a register
reserved for smug theologians;
building their own theory coffins
while, as with all systemic faith,
they malign bodies politic.
|