A poem by Stephen McAuliffe
So who embedded this terrible machine within our collective psyche?
And who selected as our cultural intellectual icons
These leaden spiritess fools
Made heavy and weighed down with solely material concerns?
Is it surely a surprise that mental and spiritual collapse
Continuously rears its ugly head
For those who bow down to nothing?
And nobody mentions the sub-heading of the Origin of Species:
The Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life
For it smacks too hard of eugenics I guess
And every negative ism you could care or dare to mention.
But as always, two false choices prevail:
Original sin or a mere accident of chemistry
Hobson’s choice as decreed his Master’s Voice.
And how many Christians does it take to cross the road?
-In order to avoid the homeless man in his piss-stained trousers?
No, there must be more than this and way beyond
For the ghost of man, the magical thinker
Has been seduced and reduced to little more than a pliable piece of spiritual putty
Folded, moulded and sculpted by unseen hands
I look around to see people everywhere standing on their heads
To avoid seeing the world turned upside down
Paying no mind and
Resolutely failing to see that freedom lies
In the nourishment of the earth
And the soul combined.