They, the all knowing other,
Knocking elbows and knees together in unison,
Heads crouched and thighs hogging the midriff,
Chased of imagination, longing wondrously for the womb,
Make formiable comrades in the embattled sagas
Of day to day living.

The illustrious cry of 'surrender' is the first technique,
Torture unnecessary, as they whither helplessly
Crackling in the sunlight of retreat from empathy.

Where be the barricades? Who need an enemy within
These ranks; a rancour opposition would be desired
Amongst such pithy wealth and tirade of accolades
Of posturing, indulgence and superstitious indifference.

What dam will hold this water of apathy, this surreptitious
Irreverence to existence in and for itself? Where be the springs
And wells of joy, goodness, truth and beauty? Why are we waiting?

The majesty of poetry wrung dry, with shrugs of insolence and entropy
Pervading each stanza they eye;
No music to be heard, no texture to be felt,
No wine to be tasted, no fragrance to be smelt;

Smelt it all in the great fire, burn the town
So that beauty may arise from the ashes,
And that misery will not be a common noun.