Beware the moral tactician,
with his subtle discriminations…
One slight ‘blunder’
on our account
and we are forever branded…
Fit for slander
and the most insidious
of derogatory asides,
despite his patronage!
Blessed are the absent minded,
for they shall make an end of it.
Psycho-Phil, our intrepid studier of souls,
picks up his ear trumpet
and heads for the pulpits of Europe…
What noise assails his timpanum!
In amongst the hoarse braying his well trained ear
picks out a genuine note:
it is one of self-contempt…
The process that sullied and besmirched our Nation-States
has led to a profound dissatisfaction in the man of modern ideas.
Our ‘strutting ape’ now suffers.
He would not suffer alone…
“It is possible to honour and respect an unselfish man.
Not for his unselfishness
but because he posseses the right
to be useful to another man at his own cost.”
“This man, and the other, who are they?”
Self abnegation in one given to lead
would be no virtue, quite the opposite.
What is good for one,
is not necessarily good for another.
The glories above were unamed.
The word for that world beneath, unuttered.
Source and time, unfettered, merged…
From the mingling waves-of-water came mud and slime.
Enshar and Kishar, twin halves of the globe, shone out of them.
‘Lifes but a walking shadow
A poor player that struts and frets
His hour upon the stage
Then is heard no more.’
‘…Consideration like an angel came
The offending Adam out of him.’
‘Foolery, Sir, does walk
About the orb like the sun
It shines everywhere…’
‘The fool doth think he is wise
But the wise man
Knows himself to be a fool…’
The historical sense to which our New Europeans lay claim with such gusto
is derived from a centuries long mingling of classes and races.
Thanks to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of life
now streams unchecked into modern souls…
Our instincts run back in all directions simultaneously,
so that, we have ourselves become a sort of living chaos.
The spirit, again, immediately perceives an advantage to this cultural dilettantism.
Our pallettes can quite easily accommodate both Homer and Shakespeare
in equal measure and yet still revel in the clashing colours
such a combination inevitably produces.
The New European,
in need of a costume
rifles through the storehouse of history
but finds none that quite fit…
We may consider the twenty-first century (common age)
with regard to these wayward
predilections of style…
In vain, we parade ourselves as Romantic,
or Baroque, or…
But, alas, nothing now suits us.
The spirit, being spirit,
spies an advantage in this,
We are a fledgling age of Carnival,
in our ill-fitting garb
we make ready to take to the World Stage…
As Buffoons of God!