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  • NOBLE POETRY  

  • ANONYMOUS-POET'S COMPLAINT ABOUT AGE

     

    How could nonsense, slanderous nonsense, ghost-killing cult-darids be advertisers? The filth of immoral libels smells of samovars outside. Wrong, painful, persistent, disgraceful state, now confronting me, I see myself deeply upset, spitting at this simpering, smiling Age, and in it the mass-man, reduced to a brute-brute! If a culture has been long offered in a frying-pan for judgment on the scale of Justice, It is too late, alas, for the swaying fool, the thieving bastard! 

    Even the morsels of crumbs are chewed with a censorious lick, And from the thirsty palates of orphaned infants, This human form is twisted. As a prophet of the rightful prophet - if thy assured word and thy faithful truth have all failed - remind thyself at least of the honest, the true: in his greedy depravity man can only wallow, - if he be not still restless and can still will to bend the rock! As a crumbling morality-loss, double-zero in thyself should seek a recipe for changeability - but seldom can there be an excuse. Wise memories may stare at bamboozled buffalo-mutton elephant towers, wild emotions here stretching their strings, while my inner rules of the game discipline me, admonish or admonish me: do not play the foolish servant if you absolutely must not, if my roof collapses over my head! My contempt has long been filled with swamp-hatred, with vile revenge. 

    To what higher power shall I send my unhappy Sisyphus-seed, who can listen with open ears to the voice of the simple herald? Where my soul-inside has no surface, but layers if it can feel - I keep my shower-showers in the depths of wounded surfaces. I remain at last a man, and with a purpose at last to warn the censorious majority!  

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