by Mark Aaron Robinson
It's a seminal generation, desirous of a throne,
that doesn't really care, who or where, it kisses,
enrapt as it gazes, through the eyes of Narcissus,
on its own images, cast in pixels instead of stone,
and the foundations of its leisure are no longer known.
We have eyes, and grand designs, but don't really see the signs….
bread, circuses, and STDs for the masses,
idols, ecstasy, and envy among upper classes,
fire, flood, and frenzy from the madrassas,
more and more and more morasses…
So the harangues of archaic atavists fall on deaf ears
as just hindering a destiny unachieved by their peers.
But history is punctuated by generations so blinded,
they perceived what they believed as demiurgic & high-minded,
and statues and edifices raised to their grandeurs
remain as ancient unplanned sepulchers
amid the bones of minions and emperors.
Still, stars in black cars, and an inevitable great orator,
jockey for positions in the next World Order, or,
whatever ism and shibboleths they spawn,
but none think in terms of right and wrong,
and good and evil are concepts long gone
on the road to new kingships, and conscripts,
and perhaps the Apocalypse.