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"An action is an aim of the subject, and it is his agency too which executes this aim: unless the subject were in this way even in the most disinterested action, i.e. unless he had an interest in it, there would be no action at all.... Impulse and passion are the very life- blood of all action: they are needed if the agent is really to be in his aim and the execution thereof. The morality concerns the content of the aim, which as such is the universal, an inactive thing, that finds it actualizing in the agent."
-Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
Today the Thunder-God crashed
As the hulk of houses sunk in their hoary graves
The wind whipped lions of fate
Along the masts where the natural staves
As the ants of time arched, ate and ate
The march of his mind--flashed
Gazing from the slick deck of his home
Where the weather sniped it with a comb.
His life-blood gone for a score of years
Wiped the sadness from his tears--
How is never entertained for much
As the leaves
Dry dead in winter's clutch
And eclipse hauls in a dark's fight
Like a Blue on the end that cleaves
It's jaw from sight.
And Christmas comes with battered hilt;
Santa's children dream in line
Court the mystery of what they find
Flowing like a batch of scrambling silt;
Training for an apocalypse
When one design would be two lips.
When he sleeps in a bed of fitful dreams
The wonder slams its weight
Against the nerves of flying, heavy gates
'Round dopamine's silent screams--
Incandescent troughs of energy
Zipping past Mercury's flitting feet
To the corner of his night's blind persuasion--
The eternally unsound equation
Lollipops of its wintery season
From abnormality's coarse rewind
And being staggers in from a gale
His head panged like a lesion--
A tragic tale
That has a window but no sign.
Now the weather from the the West
Claims to know what is best.
"When did Jung eat my fate?"
He asked the muse much too late.
There did exist a playground of green
Typical of passionate Earth down under
Sucking the water that's never seen
A boy strode with gait of blunder
Alone with friends who mistake friends
Everyday was like the bends
His own fault to fester under
The latest fads that kill personality
Shades of wonder cursed his unconscious
He knew not himself, yet how do young see?
A life-blood's mess
As much as him as to flee
When he dug a proof
To the lock and key
Of life's sleuth
Wrenching in the Lord's divided wind
Creaking in it's naked skin.
Now the times of diversion arrive
How will the lost in time survive?
He thrashed his soul rock on rock
Got wise on the edge of friendship's knife
New friends were his friendship's wife
They huffed the pipe, made drums
A rose and mums
Flash backed down his walk
Considerable things were spoken though
A boy mistook a fact from fake
Bolstered unrelenting hate
Murder was spoken into his ears.
He was sabotaged for a decade gone
Lost his way--no love but fears
Fled South for much too long
Catered to the dogs of unsound mood
Civilization's much too rude
To rain-dancing anomalies
And things that crawl from tree
To tree, amassing wisdom from the mire
Ebbing, flowing with desire
The jealousy in Abraham fluxed
He shined--and so the low discussed
A boy must fight for what he holds dear
Lest Satan conquer with screaming fear.
The muse struck him with urgent diligence
As he listened to the roiling sea
Unstuck the thorn from his mind spinning
Like a top, free
From the history that was killing
His ghostly presence
Alone as the storm lurked its concrescence
On the stoop of his home lashed
Lightning of trees
Whirling in his eyes
An unkind breeze
The solstice drew further than the dreams dashed
On his weathered brow
Never stopping to ask when or how
Addicted to a substance one can't grasp--
Life-blood running down his cheeks
As the animals rasp
And time passed by weeks.
Only the stars know what we keep
Our eyes show what we do not weep.