Democritus Was Right

The most perverse of pleasures
eject from us at whim
and yet our humblest moments
evoke from us no sin

The tongue untrained unskilled
commits a genocide
though mightier than the sword or penis
wherein we chance confide

Words contain no meaning yet,
until to them ascribed
a fluidity of motion,
by interpretive design

Convey to you myself I fail,
but know you shall insist
the heart and ill intentions
of this ephemere-al wisp

Ideas are not the same as words
or reality
and so my conscious universe
is not entirely free

But stuck within a neural frame
a matrix of desire
of blood of toxins and of pain
of putting out such fires

This tyranny of urgency
demands my full obedience
while each and every agency
rebels o'er this allegiance

To mechanist pursuit
in the context of attention
our span is far too short
antecedent e'en to mention

And like our woe betided friend
Democritus we'll expire
in pursuit of circumstantial cause
to a-priori aesthetic fire.

And to this teleology we
admit an admiration
for science owes in part its frame
and we suppressed emotion

Midst rational fallacies adroit
and new ones of our invention
The phallic symbol of our might
a black/white world and pension

A decontruktion of our faults
the modernist prescription
bloody gruesome crimes of war
turned into progression

Yet to our antediluvian mind
we have not achieved a state
we falter at merely being kind
how dare we try-trick fate

Taking that which we haven't earned
we claim a destiny
Manifest in the result;
it must; because it be

And yet Albert Schweitzer's Jesus
still calls from a rolling wheel
or a beachhead, was it in Normandy
Silence, peace, be still

The beauty of human endeavor
is that we try e'en though we fail
that’s the story of god incarnate
it is the tearing of the veil

The truth is seen with many eyes
yet we cannot come together
for at the ending of the day
all we share is but the weather

Out of lonesome hearts we lash
our tongues betray our fear
we drive away all sense of other
lest it become too dear

And ultimately at last
a judgment few, no none
can bear upon the soul we hear:
nothing, we’re alone.

What hope then but the atomist
quantum theory can't provide
the space between our atoms
or the dark stuff that be god

But in our first beginnings
beauty it did slay
or slake and quench a "baser" thirst
which? we dare not say

For if we accept the first premise
then falls behind the second
We've built our worlds upon our might
and false humility it beckons

With the crafty voice of a serpent
slithering near the tree
it’s easier to be wrong
than live up to: who is me