Pitched as a panacea by true-believing shills who presume to know what's best for us better than we ourselves ever will it's hawked as both counter and cure for all things insalubrious impure slimy vile brutish and bad. Yet despite all the times we've been had shelling out for the latest magical salve; despite all the times we gave in to breathless threats of falling skies we keep buying the same old lies the same old tales however tall and who can blame us when it's always sold as something for the greater good of us all? Immovable in their absolute refusal to admit to engendering even the slenderest bit of the darkly immaculate havoc that often ensues from putting into practice their bold utopian notions perfect-worlders — in their reckless fervour to impose those quixotically seductive impossibly destructive schemes they work without cease to sell — are oblivious to how their insidious plans for heaven on earth seem to lead to the deepest pits of a living hell. Tethered to the ruinous illusion that they're immune to the peril of reality's up-till-then-well-repelled ineludible intrusions the idealistically possessed — anchored as they are to the rock of their delusions — when finally faced with the fatal effects of their deeds avail themselves at the ghastly last of this horrific self-exculpatory truth: when ends are pursued in rabid pursuit of fevered horsefeathered dreams the ends wind up being used to excuse the no-matter-how-murderous means. A widely highly-touted nostrum for the current conjured menace it's never sold as something ugly — at best the best thing there ever was; at worst a necessary blemish. NOTE: This poem, along with "In the Age of Unreason", could be taken as bookends in what could be seen as a nine poem series. That being said, while thematically connected, all nine poems are nonetheless complete in themselves, which is to say, can be read on their own.
It's Never Sold as Something Ugly
It's Never Sold as Something Ugly
It's Never Sold as Something Ugly
Pitched as a panacea by true-believing shills who presume to know what's best for us better than we ourselves ever will it's hawked as both counter and cure for all things insalubrious impure slimy vile brutish and bad. Yet despite all the times we've been had shelling out for the latest magical salve; despite all the times we gave in to breathless threats of falling skies we keep buying the same old lies the same old tales however tall and who can blame us when it's always sold as something for the greater good of us all? Immovable in their absolute refusal to admit to engendering even the slenderest bit of the darkly immaculate havoc that often ensues from putting into practice their bold utopian notions perfect-worlders — in their reckless fervour to impose those quixotically seductive impossibly destructive schemes they work without cease to sell — are oblivious to how their insidious plans for heaven on earth seem to lead to the deepest pits of a living hell. Tethered to the ruinous illusion that they're immune to the peril of reality's up-till-then-well-repelled ineludible intrusions the idealistically possessed — anchored as they are to the rock of their delusions — when finally faced with the fatal effects of their deeds avail themselves at the ghastly last of this horrific self-exculpatory truth: when ends are pursued in rabid pursuit of fevered horsefeathered dreams the ends wind up being used to excuse the no-matter-how-murderous means. A widely highly-touted nostrum for the current conjured menace it's never sold as something ugly — at best the best thing there ever was; at worst a necessary blemish. NOTE: This poem, along with "In the Age of Unreason", could be taken as bookends in what could be seen as a nine poem series. That being said, while thematically connected, all nine poems are nonetheless complete in themselves, which is to say, can be read on their own.