En this post-modern age

Of the Iron Clockwork
Of the social, political charade
Of the heart coarsen’d by hate

The contraction of man’s most degenerate impulse
Is a grievous, involuntary response

Post-modern man,

He works so hard 2 be a destroyer of all-things
That happen 2 reside outside his experience,
Beyond the reach of his animal understanding
And rudimentary sight

Post-modern man,

He works so hard 2 be offended by the skin of his very own drum
2 be sanctimonious
And convince the world that his revolution has injustice on the run

So hard, w/ all of his might, 2 demonise his neighbor
And cast shade upon his lantern’s prospering light

Post-modern man,

He beseeches heav’nly constellations 4 universal peace
Although they are constellations en which he does not believe

Post-modern man,

He takes excessive pride
En the cut of his intellect

Cold, colder, coldest!

And deliberates ev’ry swing of Mother Nature’s mane
W/out the will 2 act on behalf of what is beautiful, noble, and good

He does this
2 the detriment of his soul.

Post-modern man,

He beseeches the jinn of degradation 2 befoul the Other
And gorges himself upon the nev’r ending sorrows of his Sistahs and Brothas
Who, 4 whatever reason, take the bait

He watches the boulders of a supreme mountain spill,
Gravity take hold, and ev’ry chamber of ev’ry heart fill
W/ the angular stones of human ill will

Post-modern man,

He seems 2 nev’r weary of filth
En fact, he feeds it as it fattens his dark space
And the pinholes, above his prow, drift

He watches as they drop from the thrones of Heav’n
drop from the many troves of Bliss
Drop, drop, drop!

Post-modern man,

He does not revere nature
He does not give her her due

4 him, biology does not hold sway
And he rebukes harshly the poor bastard
Who does not think-upon-it his way

You can be me, he scorns,
And she can be you.

Swindler! Hypocrite! Fiend!

Post-modern man,

He champions a rising tide of gloom,
Then bemoans the loss of light –

That eerie stillness that arrives
W/ the splintering of the cosmic loom

These are his transgressions
And their wages are far from trite

A lasting wynter
A soulless nite

Serves him right 4 his many treacherous deeds.

Forsaking the opening of the heart
Forsaking the groves of the Mahadevi

And then again, generations later,
The miraculous parting of the sea of reeds

And then again, generations much much later,
The truth of that beautiful prince
Who realised sublime emptiness beneath the Bo tree
Alongside a rushing river

Post-modern man,

His boast
Is a jest

En ignorance, he will die
Like all the rest

Unless he returns 2 the garten
Where his I began

Unless he returns 2 the grove
Where his fingers 1st ran
Thru the mane of a lyon’s roar

A lyon who, disguised as a feather’d serpent,
Instructed man,

Hike up those britches, nephew
And take a fuckin’ stand!

A lyon whose godly seed, by way of a Sacred Har,
Descended upon the shore of Gaul w/ a great secret 4 the soul of man
(The greatest secret 4 the soul by far); namely, Deliverance!

Fret not this ride
Fret not the fall of these earthly kingdoms
(As their citadels crumble around thee)

Fret not the stars en this darkest nite
(As they refuse 2 mirror The Dangler’s last cry)

Fret not the divine quiet
Fret not the divine repose

Fret not the tumult
Outside these ancient city walls,

Tho’ he hast died, HE is risen!
Arose! Arose! Arose!

© The Herder 20Seventeen

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