The Sad Truth (From a Lying Anthropologist)

Maybe a week ago, I was pretty bored and looking for something to write about. Then this poem came upon me. This is classic case of misanthropy, taken from the jaws of a voracious beast with three heads and two toes. Maybe it also contains some misandry.

Before posting this poem, I thought of the idea of doing a face reveal. There's this funny picture of me holding a Pinkie Pie toy from Toys R Us in my hand, and it fit this poem so well. But sadly the art of face sharing is too scary. However, we'll make a deal. I'm around 1k hits so far. This is a monumentous beginning for where we're going. For my 1bth hit, I'm getting us all a private flight to the colony on Titan onboard Elon Musk's most state-of-the-art space shuttle.

I hear you now: fuck yeah. We're gonna rock this Solar System with shitty political analysis and deep poetical insight, along with some basic human kindness and fortitude. I'd never doubt it. So without further ado, a poem I am very proud of.

The Sad Truth (From an Anthropologist of Half-Truths)

I'm to go back:
To traverse the same trodden pastures...
Same people there hand in hand,
We'll be there neck to neck again
To survive the same web of deceits.
Now I can put on a facetious face
Then, spin a web of deceits better than most;
And I can wish you'd be better
As I can wish we'd each be better
But we're not in that alternate land.
Ours is a land of existential crisis, famine, war –
Reality is that we hate,
We only chase at the carrot to our front.
We know not if it exists, but it dangles there,
The carrot is love, and it is vision-enhancing.
We're pigs at a trough of protons:
If the other guy takes yours, punch him and cry
If you take his, might makes right.
Slam the stable door, and somebody light a fire.
It'll be a porky week – lots of bacon to eat.
Yet even then, nothing pleases you.
No tools fit between our devilish hooves,
Our tails always wave the sirs, good-bye,
Our bellies so growl with a voracious voice,
Nothing is bemoaned by our devil-brains;
Save for that between us
And the inalienable drives of lusts,
Nobody asks us to fret nothing.
We've had our stories written first
Before time & gravity slapped
Our mess together.
And too long before it is wrenched asunder.

John Lockers