​Ouroboros

I am; thou art; he, she, is;

we are; you are; they are;

so everybody get in the car;

we're taking a ride.

High tech wants to own the nanosecond,

and master every fate;

to have the role of god,

and be the keeper of every gate.

And what rough beast off the farm,

its hour come round at last,

slouches towards the abattoir

to feed the nation? 

Anarcho-capitalism is held together

by the spell of the algorithm.

Out of propaganda across the spectrum,

into the valley of chaos,

advances a lone gunman.

If you think that atomisation,

plus alienation, plus globalisation,

equals this moment, 

blink twice.

Illuminated shafts of asteroid belts

reveal our planet, while the gutter 

press looks at the stars.

Mathematicians understand completeness,

philosophers understand incompleteness,

the rest of us brood on this.

My scandal sheet is in the laundry.

The flesh droops, and I have read all the tweets.

Those mentioned in despatches are long gone.

The city fathers appear in mug-shots

taken by the city mothers,

who are just demure hands folded on laps.

In selfies, emotions of characters depicted

must be deciphered by those who are human

all too human.

There are running dogs tearing up the silk road,

and gravity is no longer weighed down by laws.

Once cleanliness was next to Godliness,

now wealth has replaced Godliness.

Ears might grow from walls, eyes sprout on stalks.

Corporations take our radicalism to task,

and ask, what roots will grow in sterile soil?

They don't do sackcloth and ashes,

that is for the oppressed masses.

The mobile republic of phones

wanders to window-shop alone.

In our ouroboros, foot-in-mouth world,

where all is toast, dogged by a tide

of unpaid bills due, 

my other car is just a bumper sticker,

and my bumper sticker would like a new car.

David Eggleton bio 

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