Observations of the world

Is it any wonder, the state of decay? Odiferous clouds of chaos bloom like poisoned, kaleidoscopic poppies. Pains suffered in childhood become agonies of the soul through the autumn of adulthood. Perhaps we can hold the man accountable; the self-sufficient architect of progress and perdition. Perhaps the woman is to blame? The silky, sweet seductress is seldom satiated, suddenly suspicious. Perhaps it is the company; the taskmasters of the golden age, relentless and repressing, compelling and condemning. Decay. How should we then live? Our pleasures are bought for a penny, sold for a pound. Can we condone the conservation of our righteous consciousness when justice is oppression and truth becomes conditional? Or have we, as the song says, “become comfortably numb?”

Where was the carnage as the bullet finished its terrible work? Were is the evidence of chaos and destruction that would be present when lead violence meets flesh and bones? If a chance someone would see the crimson mist lay, would they speak? Silent now, forever. No more the weapon of rational minds doing battle eternal with the inexhaustible forces of ignorance and savagery. Yet let it be peace. As the final whisper departs the still mouth. As the eyes darken from the light of a soul fashioned by a creator, to formed mud. Return to the ground. As all we must. Never more let any man say, the killing was just. Burn in hell you degenerate bastards. And may I have the fulfillment, nay the climactic glory so magnanimous to see the light leave your eyes as you enter the next world. I beg this profane gift from our loving father; grant me this, Lord of all, let it be me to effectuate the fall. Let my hand be stained with the blood so vile, let them know my name, and the saying of it banning...

 Here’s to all the cadets of chaos, to the soldiers of solidarity, to all those who fight for frivolity, we salute you.  Your young hands stained black, barely visible and yielding instead to the red rubbed skin; the sacrifice for admittance into the underworld where morality vanishes and kindness is confused with pleasure.  Mirrors captured on devices small enough to rest inside the tightest fitting denim, vast enough to fill a world of sinister stares.  What does the mirror see? What does it observe from its place on the bathroom wall? Children taking poison into their bellies until their still developing bodies revolt, throwing up fire, spraying the walls and toilets and waste bins.  People looking into their own eyes with shame, and disdain and regret.  Some shedding tears for times before they became soldiers of the night.  The mirror. Cold, careless of morality, or virtue. Regardless of pain or pleasure. It’s face marred with sharpie, and lipstic...