Prophets & Poets
Snap. (This is for W.B. “Pretty Boy” Yates -who else?). The focus is getting smaller and narrower and meaner with each passing day. Perspective is lost and subsequently obliterated. The centre cannot hold because it has disappeared down into its own myopic microscopic asshole; therefore things fall apart and fall into a black hole of various vulgar solipsisms. The true substance of Anarchy is but the thin, starved ghost of a vanished memory and what is loosed upon the world is the shrill cackle of hysteric dribblings and superstitious ravings and the spasmodic gusts of whingeing wounded entitlement. A Great Reset is much needed, verily, yeah! But not the great reset “They” have in their poxy, tired and geriatric minds. Snap, snap! Snip, snip! We need to get out of our self-inflicted prisons, break our self-imposed chains, renounce our voluntarily assimilated impotence, stop trying to explain the world and come out into the streets to welcome the R-Evolution, before the slouching beast gets us all. There. Have a fab weekend.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?