I originally posted this on April 2, 2024 but I had written it before that. I had forgotten about it! I will have to add to it, soon!
The Open Casket of the Dead-Beat Society
Why has the election decided this?
Society wanted this bliss of decay
and matrimony.
To society it was full of harmony
in which they sung with the whole choir.
The choir so docile and made up
each pedestal full of the arch crocodile
it pretended to be with that once holy bonnet
bull of butter and whey.
But hey, what does it matter?
The 1st, 2nd, or the latter
never got us to the clouds in the sky
with that golden hook so full of nothing sworn.
Instead we get to walk by the open casket with no form
only full of gaskets, muskets, holes and smoke
of confusion and conformity.
The poor man’s casket with out sides or a top
that could at least spin out of control
and help us to be interested in the
dead cathedral underneath those wind pipes.
What did this society, once full of clamor, have to sing and chatter about?
What did it claim
what sort of steak were we eating then?
Now as we look at this body
full of dead bones, vines, and sticks
where the head of the slate bends and ticks off
to the measurement of time
can we see what used to be
in this society?
What did the wind pipes portray?
‘How did this get exhumed?’, one asks.
‘It just happened.’, Another one says.
‘No its always been dead and buried just how we had planned it to be!’, the last one chirped.
The choir chimed in, ‘Who? Bless them!’
One short one said, ‘I just got here ma’am I am not to blame.’
And they all had to agree but didn’t and decided to blame the deadness on the short one since it complained. The short one didn’t understand and the rest thought it best.
They all left the body of that society to rest.
What it did was blow away into dust
and it spread its lust into the future.
The short ones grew tall
while the casket dust was spread
over every morsel of bread
and the casket head read:
THE WHIPPING, DRIPPING CLOCK
Time stands still under a whipping, dripping clock. Whipping us into submission at work, at school and at home in this wonderful society of ghouls and goblins who are allowed to torture us. They call us the tenures of society. Maybe we have tenure in this society, if so, why cannot we rise up and stop the madness that they portray over us. Why cannot we understand that we could do that one minute at a time? Instead we are condoned to believe what they are feeding all of us; that they control society, and therefore us. They say they control us through their dripping torture of us, of our very souls through time and space and mathematics. The mathematical measurement of our spirits, dividing our spirits out among the masses of people using the belief of prosperity and the conundrum of putting it back together as a form of confusion and brain washing. Then we are elated and grateful when we agree to be used for our knowledge of doing that very thing for them. Because their intelligence comes from nowhere else, but their deteriorating brains and non beating hearts that are so small they cannot be weighed or measured not even to be told that they are found wanting by all of the society that they say they are serving. In reality we are serving that society which is where we live, which turns out to be us. We are serving ourselves the clock that they are using to control us and they use us to do that. Since the fall of man life has been an institution with no love and only ordinances to control those institutions in order to make them successful houses of torturous whippings and drippings of bits of hate, until those drippings become our psychological death. The clock becomes our mothers and fathers, our loves that cannot love us back. We are trained to look to them for wisdom and security. What we get instead is pain and subjection, which we learn is the same.
Again I ask, ‘Why has the election decided this?’
Society wanted this bliss of decay and matrimony.
by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art
Leave a Reply