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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476745" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Living On A Planet That Kills More People Than It Heals</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Living on a planet that kills more people than it heals. <br>And the most dangerous of predators, our own ideals <br>turning on us like ingrown hairs, solar flares the wind <br>blew in our faces without any of the veils or auroral graces <br>that used to adorn our amazement at what our eyes <br>in creative collaboration with victimized ions, could do <br>with the last breath of an expiring sun god to make it <br>mystically beautiful and awe-inspiring. Just <br>to be a witness to it was enough to keep your mouth <br>shut for the next ten thousand years, the silence <br>before the sublimity of being in the presence <br>as convincing to the farmer as it was to the astronomer. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As civilization progresses into an improved savagery<br>and people grow more bovine in their living rooms <br>as the one-eyed liar at the nadir of the third eye <br>entrances them into believing they're still <br>grazing in the starfields of genetically modified astroturf <br>they were raised on, slowly, from a moon cow's point of view <br>it's beginning to dawn on people that civilization <br>is nothing but the history of war since Sargon of Agade<br>first turned the plunder of cattle and women <br>into the military imperialism of the few against the many <br>by staying like a parasitic cosmic egg laid <br>on the pineal gland of a host caterpillar so civilization, <br>mimetic word, a cattle prod, an axe, and an abattoir, <br>is coming to be seen for the death trap that it is.<br>Muddy Waters, there's anotha mule kickin in yo stall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I grew up in an impoverished neighbourhood <br>where the garbage cans were full of people<br>but I swear, and I've seen a lot I wish I hadn't, <br>I've never seen so much rot, corruption, and ignorance, <br>lacking even elementary street smarts, as I do <br>in the portulent politicians and their fanatically kempt hags<br>that make you feel so sorry for their hairdressers, <br>and the tailors that have to fit them like a hidden agenda <br>of hate and greed, oozing through the seams <br>of their shapeshifting, deformed-fitting suits. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Makes you want to stick the old peace sign of the sixties <br>down your throat and throw up. Or pack up <br>a small tent, like a refugee or an emigrant<br>and get in line with the rest of the waterlilies<br>who've finally given up on trying to turn <br>the festering swamp into something redeemably beautiful<br>and would rather be homelessly lost among the stars, <br>floating down the Milky Way with wild black swans, <br>than sit like the eggcup of a crown on the skull <br>of a false prophecy missing more than one link in its evolution.<br>And if you think not to be appalled by the stink of the world <br>is a kind of experienced wisdom, a seasoned outlook, <br>then I might suggest that you've aged like offal <br>complicit in the contagion of worms in the grass<br>where the children play on the swings. And your last best hope<br>is that your eyes have retained some of the original innocence <br>of the fool that you used to be, <br>before the Medusa turned them to stone<br>and the colour flaked off like the irises of violated covenants.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Radical in the sixties, I was into self-creative destruction, <br>tallowing sand candles out of napalm and beeswax<br>that went off like fifty calibre lipstick shells in your face.<br>I occupied. I dropped out. I blew my own mind <br>more than once just to make sure the bridge was burning <br>by the time I got to the other side of my own mindstream <br>and no one was following me like another blistering ideal <br>that got thrown like acid in the maculate face of the full moon. <br>It was easier to believe in everything back then<br>than to make peace with myself even now, <br>though I know it's just one illusion dead set against another <br>and I'm sitting naked in the Himalayas alone at night<br>trying to hatch a new cosmic egg for myself <br>or at least a new cosmology for this glass third eye <br>I've ground like a lens or the mirror of a reflecting telescope <br>with gritty carborundum down to within an angstrom of perfection <br>just to be on the same wavelength as quicksilver and diamonds<br>when it comes to seeing things that don't easily disappear.<br>Now I can see the stars dancing clearly from the inside out. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm looking for an abandoned observatory on the top <br>of the world mountain standing on the shaky cornerstone <br>of a snapping turtle, and I'm not being driven out this time, <br>exiled among exiles, like some scapegoat beaten<br>like an objective correlative for what is most ugly in humans<br>that don't sacrifice themselves for their own sins.<br>I've been leaving of my own accord for the last thirty light years <br>of this wilderness experience for the wind knows where.<br>And I still care. And I still help the waywards of life <br>that blow across my path like losing lottery tickets<br>and one winged butterflies trying to fly <br>like the unbound page of a book with half a wingspan.<br>I still fight with words and actions that have been blooded <br>like Damascene swords in the sacred forges of my infernality. <br>I've gone on exploring the elusive dark energy <br>of my expansiveness long after the universe went out <br>and sight stopped being a kind of love as lucid <br>as the imagination on a good seeing night for the sky bound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But as my compassion has grown deeper, more holistic <br>and mystically specific simultaneously so has the sadness <br>of feeling so many suffer the indistinguishable pain <br>of simply being alive to endure the agony <br>of cauterizing their cosmic wounds with the very stars <br>they wished upon a heart break ago when the waterclock <br>broke like an ice-age dam and the baby mammoth <br>was washed away like starmud in a glacial flood<br>of Pleistocene tears. And life seems so randomly perilous <br>in the way it maims and kills the body and the mind, <br>it seems even the wise and the sublime die as surrealistically <br>as the sarcastic mentors of trash and trivia<br>trying to distract our attention away from our dilemma<br>with cheap thrills and punchlines about the meaning of nothing <br>so we can't feel the house burning down around us<br>until we're reminiscing in our urns, <br>as if we were still haunted by eyes in the dark<br>like some lingering significance to our demise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lachrymae rerum. Sometimes I think the mute rocks <br>don't just speak, they weep like stars <br>for the things they've seen like the headstones<br>of prophetic skulls in a cemetery of ancestral asteroids.<br>An abandoned observatory, yes, the jewel in the lotus, <br>and a large garden where I can grow my own constellations <br>like esoteric zodiacs of asters and sunflowers <br>and a lover I can bed down with like an equinox <br>when our celestial equators intersect our ecliptics <br>at the equinoctial colures of our cosmic G-spots <br>and we can implode like supernovas in each other's presence <br>just for the pure joy of immolating ourselves in bliss<br>to renew the tenderness of the fireflies who know <br>there are no limits to how far we can take this.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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And the most dangerous of predators, our own ideals 
turning on us like ingrown hairs, solar flares the wind 
blew in our faces without any of the veils or auroral graces 
that used to ador..."></div>
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