Fiction, Literature, Muses, Mythology

The Birth of Callidora

pan

Sing to me muse a tale of Pan and his ebullient and motley melodies. The shepherd prince was sleeping in the mint green fields in the Olympian hills. The flocks of a thousand nations lay bellow, all chewing the grass sprouts and lulling quietly and contentedly like flocks are want to do when the wolves are away and the sun is high in the sky. Pan lays upon a goatskin on a rock in the shade of an oak tree. He is the very picture of self-indulgent relaxation and coy passion. Beauty: his haunches solid as the marble of the quarry. His hair stolen from the storied stock of golden fleece. His swats at a fly with hands that could paint an eggshell with a lambs tears while the other is choking the life from a great she-wolf. He looks down upon his flock with eyes that could cause the moon to look away for their brilliance.

            Even exquisite and self-possessed Aphrodite has been known to fall for his charms… one winter day they met in a Thracian garden and made love for three nights and three days without end… Their ecstasy brought forth an early bloom of flowers in the winter months and Pan proudly renamed the site “The Garden of Winter Passion”, so it is still known to this day by the mortal inhabitants who come to admire its early flourishing blossoms. He was Pan. Pan of the Fields. Pan of music pure. And what music! The flock would sway to the melodies, and the lambs would skip to every honey sweetened note. There were five that he was especially fond of playing. One note brought to the sky the birds of all the world. Sparrows, jays, gulls, swifts, swallows, even the ferocious hawks, ravens, buzzards and eagles could not resist the enigmatic note. The doves would land about him and add their voices to the sharp whisper of his breath dancing upon the edge of the pipes. What so sharp a note can all but tame the wildest birds of the four winds? Pan has found it and Pan will hold fast its secrets ‘til the end of ages.

            Pan stirs from his perch upon the rock. He thinks he sees a creature prowling on the edges of the pasture. Dark and leering the shadow of this beast. ‘Tis a mountain lion looking for an easy lunch. Pan shows no fear in his handsome face. On the contrary! He smiles at the fun that will come for him. He lives for the times he can fight to protect his flock. He grabs his club, throws his goatskin onto his broad shoulders and runs like a spring breeze down the side of the steadily sloping hill. He puts his pipes to his lips and sounds a note of warning to his flock. The loud whistle resounds through the  valley and the sheep, goats, and cattle all take note. They turn towards their master and they run like Cerberus himself were on their tails.

            Pan continues to blow his note as he finally reaches the plain. He sees the lion pouncing upon one of his prized rams. Pan throws off his goat skin and charges at the growling creature, whose teeth are as long and sharp as daggers and whose hide is as strong as a soldiers shield. Pan grabs the beast by its muscled neck and throws it with all his might off of the ram. The lion roars in rage and swings its mighty paws, narrowly missing the God. Pan merely laughs and smashes home his mighty ash limb club. The skull of the mighty lion is crushed like an over ripened olive between the fingers of a young boy. The lion fell limp against the ground and Pan felt a thrill dance along his spine. He pulled forth his pipes and sounded a note of triumph to his flock. So proud the Lord of all nature! He plays his note for all the hear! As loud as a war drum, sharp as the tip of a spear. The flock was comforted by this martial note and came with heads held high back to their protector.

            Pan walked amongst the animals, looking for any more threats to their well being. Finding none he was able to rest once more upon the honor and the laurels of battle. He skinned the lion on the spot and used the pelt as another layer of comfort for his recumbent frame. The chief pursuit of the immortal is always comfort and pleasure, but on occasion even the perpetually blessed must tend to his duties. Tend to his duties… and to his needs. There was a sudden stirring in the loins of the god. The rush of war had given way to the rush of lust. Thus was the way of all immortal flesh. Man is truly a model of the gods, but where man composes poems, odes, and songs to celebrate the eternal yearning for flesh. The gods have the advantage in the pursuit however; the immortal hand may forge from the dust a greater art then any to soothe the burning passion of their desire.

            And so Pan in the misty thrall of delight did deign to make an opus worthy of his companionship. From the flock that in eternal trust and love did stand close upon his every step, Pan did seek the fairest lamb, the bravest and the most playful. It did not take long to find a little lamb that skipped and cried with unyielding abandon. He looked into its lively eyes and  saw an inner life a life that seemed by its very nature to be striving for a greater expression of itself. When found he took the little beast and pressed it to his sun kissed skin, and lifting hence from his breast did present the offering to the sky. At once the metamorphosis was done, and Pan let fall to earth the most nubile form that that ever blessed the fertile plains of earth. Her hair the richest russet, alike the deepest womblike dirt of the valley. When she stood unsteady upon her grass stained feet Pan could see his composition for the masterwork she was. Her frame was enveloped in the most splendidly dark skin, dark like the ripened olive. Her hands, now searching her own form in wonder at its constitution, oh her hands forged of mercury bleeding from arms that so sweetly frame the most succulent bosom that ever did grace the eyes and fancy of a fruitful being. With buds alike the rose in winters thaw placed upon the softest fleshly hill, a neck did rise like an oak to stand twixt to sloping peaks, the proudest shoulders ever seen upon a woman. Her eyes finally turn from the task of admiring her own new born form to survey the world around her. They flash the gayest green when they fall upon the person of her creature.

            For the first time the woman found the use of her tongue. It was a strange sensation to her newly minted mouth, but she spoke with the eloquence bequeathed to her by Pan. “My creator, I am humble in thy presence. I am most pleased by my creation, and to you I pledge my honor, my mind, my body, and my eternal gratitude. I am free from the flock that kept me safe, but also kept me estranged from the world. A flock is a warm, safe place, but therein lies the poisonous comfort that makes it a warm, safe prison for a form such as mine waiting to be made free. You looked into my eyes and saw the transformation within me lacked only the act to be made a full expression of life. I thank you so much God of all nature and living things, God of inescapable beauty, God of song that transcends all mortal melody, God who sang to me when I was but a lamb amongst lambs, who sang to me in a voice of mighty Olympus high above in the clouds, who protected me from the scourge of thunder, drought, and ravenous beasts. I salute your splendor and I confirm to you my eternal debt.” With reverence born of the bond between artist and creation the maiden fell to her knee. Pan laughed and immediately bid her stand.

            “Do not bow to me! For it is I who is enthralled, indebted to you.; your beauty is a gift I will never be able to match again. Do not worship me! You are forged of the sturdy, breathing stuff of earth, out of life and all its beneficial color. I am born of chaos, of harmony betrayed, of lost and ill framed emotion flung into a forge of fearful imagination. I am a haphazard concoction of eternal rage and incestuous starlit meanderings. You my dear are made of much more human stuff. Do not praise me! I am nothing more then the sum of creations, and you my dear confirm that in my finest moments I can reach true transcendence. I am reborn in you my dear! I am reborn anew! Into sunlight! Into a dawn of elation that should not ever see a dusk of fervor. You are my pinnacle… what is the use of being an immortal if one cannot use that divinity to create a beauty that needs no immortal justification? Take my hand and I will give you a gift worthy of your splendor.”

            And she looked at him, and he looked at her, and she knew what this gift would be.

Pan placed his hands upon her warm face, cooling her mortal fever with a divine chill that soothed her newborn frame. “I brought you forth, but I cannot truly claim you as a creation. I was given a gift by the earth that I so humbly tend. Allow me this loving indulgence though: allow me to give to you a name. You are Callidora. You are a gift of beauty to this world. I treasure you, do me the honor of treasuring yourself.”

Callidora did take a step into his arms. She felt her heart sing and her body move to its deep music. Twas the melody of passion playing upon her emotions and her form. Art met artist, expression met act. They met in the embrace that all lovers practice. A kiss to be remembered in poem, caresses to soften the most mordant heart. Between her legs a cloven fig, red and ready for the worshipful tongue of her god, her creator, her playmate. The nectar spread upon his lips as he brought her to the brink of possible bliss. To the heavens it sounded! To the air! To the clouds! What can ever feel so true as the truth that a man feels in a woman? Lust fully consummated, passions fully cooled, they lay together like to children caught up in some foolish game.

            With their caper complete Pan rejoiced at his new companion and played for her a song of love upon his pipes:

I sing a song of Callidora

Of pleasant fields and verdant flowers

In bloom

Alive

In spring a birth of ecstasy

A nymph as soft as the purest wool

Anointed with my kisses

You are spirited towards the sky

To Olympus

To the very vault of heaven

My heart a soundless song upon your lips

So did Pan bring the world Callidora, and so did Callidora first feel the pulse of the living world.

 

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art, LGBT

Artist Profile: Jessica Rue

rue

Jessica Rue is one of the most driven and naturally talented contemporary artists I know, and I know quite a few. While a master’s student and graduate assistant at Northern Illinois University’s art school she has been able to achieve so much with relatively limited resources. This is one of the hallmarks of a great artist; the constant drive to create and innovate no matter what the circumstances or limits on time and space. I have visited her small studio in the horribly designed art building (a flat roof on an enormous building in Northern Illinois, the snow capital of the Chicago land area…brilliant, that) and she has filled her small space with the fascinating and utilitarian accoutrements of her field. There is a drill and a table saw and lights and pliers and clamps and, most wonderful of all, anvils! I have never seen an anvil that was used for its intended purpose and it was a remarkably nerdy moment when she let me weigh it in my hand.

Ms. Rue almost impulsively makes chainmail; small necklaces, sheets of tiny rings, silver and brass, all different sizes and shapes. It is enough to make a Medievalist stand up at attention. Of course her talents do not end there. She is a conceptual artist as well and delves deeply into modern art theory. She incorporates found objects in her compositions in a seamless and natural way. There is no Duchampian coyness or postmodern pseudo-intellectualism to be seen in her found object pieces and she always uses this trinkets and prizes as an element of her piece that ties the rest of the theme together. There is never a wasted element, literally and figuratively.

The piece entitled “I was thrilled by what lay before me” is a clear example of her simple but moving aesthetic. The piece is a pendant made from copper, sterling silver, and an oak wood base covered in varnish and paint. The craftsmanship of the piece itself is deceptively simple. There is no added bells and whistles, no attempt made to make this an object of pure costume fancy. This is a piece of jewelry for a person who wants to adorn themselves with beauty conveyed through meaning and pathos. The metal work that makes up the rest of the piece is exquisite and lovely; the chain is dark and has the look of aged Victorian era material. The chain is attached to shaped metal bars that are gently curved into an almost arabesque shape. If you pay attention to the shape of the metal on the top you will see that if they were removed from the piece and placed so as to mirror one another the shape would be that of a classical heart. Small screws hold the baseplate in place and the corners of the wooden frame are softly rounded. The centerpiece is a small found photograph of two women standing next to each other in a doorway. The photograph is from the 1920’s and both women are wearing fashion indicative of the era. They are smiling sweetly, even mischievously, and looking ahead at the camera.

Jessica told me that when she found the photo in a thrift store it had a crease down the middle that made her wonder about the history and true meaning behind the photograph. As a feminist activist in the most edifying and sincere sense of the term she is always trying to find a way to capture the experience of women through her work. She is especially sensitive to the LGBT community and is a champion of sexual and intellectual liberation. The piece here is a clear example of this aesthetic. Inspired by the crease in the photo she created a hinged locket that allowed the photo to be swung open and shut like a small cabinet door. The women are thereby separated and can be brought together with the pull of a slender string that runs the length of the piece. One is left with the sense of a secret love, a profound loss or even denial of desire. The rigid stance of the women is mimicked by the square wooden frame in which the photo is placed and the silver joints between them both serve as a barrier and as the axle upon which they can be brought together again. It is a keepsake of a love affair that may only exist in conception or imagination but is brought to life by the real life struggles and loss of millions of people throughout time and place who feel a sense of acute loss brought about by extreme longing and affection. What brings them together pushes them apart. It is a remarkable commentary on the struggle of lesbian and bisexual people, women especially, who find pain and hardship go hand in hand with love and a need to be accepted.

This piece is only one of dozens the artist has created since discovering her talent. She is a wonderful example of an innate talent shaped and molded by mentors and fellow artists. Instead of egotistically claiming genius or self-motivated inspiration she goes out of her way to reference those other artists in and out of her field whom she admires and has learned from. This is not a woman who sees art as a fully individual effort. It is a communal learning exercise and she believes that talent can only be improved through listening, research and sharing.

Jessica Rue is a talent you do not find all that often; a truly gifted and truly humble artist who feels a connection with the greater artistic and intellectual world. She is an artist to watch.

 

Check out her work, which also includes photography and more traditional, but no less beautiful, gem stone jewelry here on her blog:

http://www.jessicarue.com/

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Pope, Pope Benedict XVI

Conclave

ConclaveBird

We are on the 6th vote for Pope at the moment. Waiting for the smoke to appear. This is what papacy nerd like me live for. I am actually able to write my novel about a historical papal conclave WHILE watching a conclave unfold in real time. This is a rare opportunity for me.

Here is a live feed of the Sistine Chapel chimney…note the seagull that keeps landing on the damn thing and photobombing the conclave! The bird is reminding me of the story of the ancient Pope Fabian…according to legend he was chosen when a dove landed on his head in a crowded square in Rome!

http://www.nbcnews.com/video/nbcnews.com/51133846#51133846

I hope we have news soon…I am guess Gregory or Pius for a name. That is my story and I am sticking to it!

UPDATE: White Smoke from the Sistine Chapel. Pope elected. More to come…

UPDATE: Cardinal Bergoglio from Argentina has been elected Pope Francis I

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Capitalism, Communism, economy, essay, Existentialism, Philosophy, Politics

Cyclops

Kulturgeschichte / Industrie / H¸ttenwerke / Walzwerke

Imagine if you will a foolish paradigm; a notion you may soon enough choose to forget. But imagine just the same. See the world as it is; riven, tempestuous, “everywhere man in chains”. There are mechanisms in the world, institutions and cabals. Not in a sense that an idiot would have you understand; no Bilderberg or Soros boardrooms or Masons. No something much more banal then all that. Governments and representative bodies, capitals and palaces and parliaments and cathedrals. All beautiful outward expressions of civil vitality and republican freedom. But of course the republic is shadow box, playing off the dreams and yearnings of catered nationalist sentiment. No real passion, no real potency, no real ambition. Just threadbare panache disguised as a national dialogue.

The world as it is, as it truly is, the people as they are, do not crave influence or ambition without limit. We do not look into the eyes of a golden god and hope for a lifetime gifted with the Midas touch.

We look deeply, longingly into the eye of a Cyclops. It is the eye that looks back whenever a man contemplates his life and work. Adolph von Menzel painted a masterwork called Steel Rolling Mill, but it is often called the Cyclops for the glowing furnace that stands gaping and glaring at the center of the composition. All working human beings know something of this eye, this point of contemplation and desperation. It is a life that stares back, a lifetime of work or worry or stress or fear condensed and floating like a collapsing star in the midst of an existence of existence, of the reality of pain and work and love and pleasure. The working human being is always watched by the Cyclops, by this beast of spiritual burden bourn by everyone not born sucking on silverware. No one but a true human being, a true member of the proletariat, can contend with this boogey of subtle, satisfying angst. No millionaire or potentate can understand the withering gaze of expectation, want, shame and lust that every human being who wants for anything must contend with at every moment from birth until death. Only the poor know this Cyclops. The rich can only comprehend a blind fate.

The perversion of government, the true friend of this Cyclops, this beast, makes us reluctant anarchists; not wanting misrule or the collapse of the social contract, but a mode of ruling ourselves without any sort of system built upon the inherent mistrust of the people, the proletariat. The problem with the current manifestation of the left wing is that it expects revolutionary results from a system inherently antithetical to the notion. We celebrate a democracy that never existed, a promise that was never fulfilled and we espouse in the name of institutions, values we never really practiced. There can be no democracy in a republican system, in a capitalist system, indeed in a system that does not recognize the inherent drive for comfort, happiness, love and improvement that define the human animal. There is no innate drive to wealth and there is no natural craving for the exploitation of others. This is taught, inculcated and is indeed mimicked without thought by generations who saw nothing but a celebration of greed and largesse in their societies and culture. There is no natural monopolist or millionaire. Humans want a more rich reward and have a simpler creed: respect, mutual and unforced, and love unyielding and understanding.

Why not try things anew? Why not risk death or pain in the pursuit of peace and happiness? You do already now, and within the current system any such satisfaction will be perpetually deferred. If you are being pushed over the edge why not then just jump? Perhaps you will land on your feet. Perhaps you can live to see the day when the working part of humanity looks back into the eye of the Cyclops and force him to blink. It was a foolish paradigm, I know that now, and you should not feel guilty for forgetting about it all.

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Communism, Conservatism, Democracy, Philosophy, Politics, Socialism

The Right and the Closing of the American Mind

Niccolo_Machiavelli_Osho

“What we are witnessing is the closing of the American mind.” This not at all sanguine appraisal of the contemporary American condition is offered tonight by radio demagogue Mark Levin. This sage of American reactionary pedagogy is of course a corporate tool and shill for the capitalist establishment but that does not mean he does not have a certain understanding of the conditions underlying that problem that faces us today, albeit unwitting.

 

In a civil society you must have a moral order. Right versus wrong, good versus evil, just versus unjust, and means versus ends. They’re not the same thing, and when we talk about moral order, you must have a moral order to have a rule of law, for the free market to work, to advance national security.

This declaration of principles is an almost perfect elucidation of the reactionary capitalist doxa. The argument of Right and Wrong are a convenient dichotomy for those attempting to disguise their lack of moral authority. Compassionate conservatism (see compassionate capitalism) failed, globalized market based prosperity is a oxymoronic farce and supply side theology has been abandoned as the worst sort of wishful thinking by any capitalist economic theorist not wishing to be laughed out of the ivory tower. All that remains to the reactionary capitalist is the fantasy that what they do is for the Right against the Wrong; painting change as an intrinsic Wrong perpetrated against the “people”, in reality the consumer, the customer. Levin is also correct that there must be a moral order, or at least a beloved facsimile of one. This can be patriotism, or family values (actually Bible based Christian paternalist misogyny and authoritarianism), or the most potent, love for the free market. On that issue the American mind is indeed “closed”. Or at least it would appear at first glance.

The Now is the essence of the inevitable. What we experience and live on a moment by moment basis seems to demand the a priori acceptance of the conditions being experienced as inherent to existence. Or at least this is the case in the realm of societal evolution. The status quo is an addictive prospect and a potent intellectual narcotic. This is why it is so often drafted in the reactionary philosophy. “You must have a moral order to have a rule of law, for the free market to work, to advance national security.” Levin actually repeats himself three times in this sentence: the rule of law is the free market which is the main impetus and rational for the aggressive militarization of the police state and conversion of the military into a police apparatus known as National Security. “It’s a free country”, we are reminded by the political Right, their voice raising another octave. Of course, but freedom to what end? Freedom to consume? Freedom to choose where and when to consume? “Would you, sir, like to take the red train to hell or the green?” In an imperial system there is, by definition, no freedom. There cannot be. The peace maintained not for the proletariat but for those exploiting their needs and aspirations is the Pax Mercatus, the peace of the market. This peace of course is a false concept as it is in any imperially imposed idyll. Participate in the system or else allow it to drain you of life. But there then is the contradiction of freedom, the false choice; choosing to participate will just as surely drain you. So the peace, the inevitable, is the realization that life is as it is and there is no use in fighting that fact. At least you have some time and enjoyment while you are being drained! At least you get to ride the train. The freedom beloved by the people is the freedom to choose the method of their own exploitation, and of course even this is a false choice. Where do you hide in an all-pervasive system? How do you survive in a world of capital and greed by being poor and unselfish? You either consume or are consumed and of course the former is just a roundabout way of coming to the latter. So what is the moral order of the reactionary capitalist supporters? Inertia.

In his Discourses Machiavelli said

“Prudent men always and in all their actions make a favour of doing things even though they would of necessity be constrained to do them anyhow.”1

 

                This is a delightfully pragmatic proposal that nonetheless exposes an insidious though essential aspect of the imperial capitalist system. The favour in this case is capitalist governmental structure’s maintaining  the right to a stable and humane living through the fruits of one’s own labor. This labor is of course appropriated by the corporate system and the government whose main interest is in maintaining the capitalist power structure and divvied up the way this power structure sees fit. The tax structure in the USA maintains a token all but subsistence level “social safety net” and finances a full blown welfare system for corporate interests. This illusion of “prosperity” is the basis of the claim that the American system is the most successful and free in the world. The proletariat is given just enough to survive the work needed to maintain the system that keeps them in thrall to the corporate controlled government structure and just enough hope to motivate them into working beyond what is healthy or sane in order to grasp at an all but impossible future in the upper echelon of the class structure. Belief in this fantasy is inculcated in the population by an educational system, funded by the arbitrary tax value of property, that is increasingly maintained as a factory for creating minds ready and willing to participate in the capitalist market. Art, social studies, physical education or anything else that would lead to a rational mind and healthy body is eliminated in favor of class-biased standardized testing and even market based programs like “Sales”, “Business”, and “finance” classes. So in the end the “American Dream” is the appropriation of labor from the proletariat so that it may be given back to them in smaller and pre-determined allotments, minus the “surplus” needed to maintain th capitalist corporate welfare system that enforces the unending toil and exploitation required to make the proletariat create the wealth that can then be appropriated. No one ever said the capitalist system was not thorough.

This of course leads to the sublimation of any sort of proletarian activism or economic consciousness. “Hard work” is what leads to “success” but of course both concepts are arbitrary standards composed and maintained by a corporate business class that has a vested interest in cheap and overworked service workers. The American mind is not closing, as Levin argues, but is already sealed shut. For the majority of workers alienated from the means of production, the creation of capital, or the mechanisms of control there is no conceivable escape from this system. In fact any attempt by the leftist class conscious forces within society, where the in fact exist at all, is shunned and attacked by the working and middle classes as a dangerous affront against the system that gives them the chance to keep themselves “comfortable” and advancing towards the goal of entering the capitalist class of entrepreneurs and managers. As John Steinbeck said, Americans are not able to move beyond this vicious and exploitative cycle because in their own minds they are but “temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” There is no better way to ensure servitude then to promise freedom.

National security is a key term to recognize and understand within the context of a global capitalist system. The national security state took hold as a seeming means unto itself around the time that the collapse of state communism left the capitalist authorities bereft of a raison d’etre relating to their increased militarization. The retardation of Communism was abandoned in favor of the expansion of the global free market. These concepts of course have essentially the same meaning; the maintenance of forces, systems, and circumstances that are friendly to exploitation of the local proletariat. The Pax Americana ended out of necessity so that the Pax Mercatus could rise, the latter being the post-national synthesis of multinational corporate capitalism with nationalistic imperialism. There is no locus of power beyond the financial centers and boardrooms of the corporate and managerial class. The entire world is feudalized and each human being owes a life-term of “hard work” to contribute to the capitalist system and its expansion.

Peace is needed for this sort of system to work, a certain sort of peace that preserves the prerogative of the market forces, which are of course merely the whims and wishes of the robber barons and multinationals. The multinational uses resources collected from the proletariat of the various industrialized nations in order to expand and maintain the status quo in regions of the world where democracy has not yet softened the desire of the proletariat to fight for a feature less assured but more humane in potential. The people of the industrial democracies do not dispute, for the most part, the choice of intervening in the affairs of “less developed” nations. This is because the potent mix of nationalism and xenophobia cultivated and stoked by the government and its reactionary tools in the media and cultural institutions. In this effort religion is less an opiate than a stimulant pushing society towards a violent hatred for and confrontation by proxy with the proletariat of another state. War is exported abroad in order to spread peace and prosperity at home. We are even told that through war will come peace, peace in the sort of way that only an un-wittingly exploited and placated democratic populace can comprehend. War is preferable to peace because peace would mean the inertia required to maintain the order would have more of a chance to be disturbed. Idle hands and idle minds tend to stray towards innovation or at least contemplation. Besides, as Lenin said

“a certain period of acute economic dislocation and chaos, which accompany all wars, and civil war in particular, is inevitable, before the resistance of the bourgeoisie is crushed”2

And the proletariat does not want war, it does not want upheaval and chaos and change. At least it does not think it wants it. Not yet at least. In this regard Levin is correct, but only by mistake. The American mind is closed, but that does not mean it cannot be opened.

***

  1. The Discourses, Machiavelli, Niccolo, trans. Walker, Leslie J, and Richardson, Brian, Penguin Classics Ed.
  2. 2.       On The History Of The Question Of The Unfortunate Peace, Lenin, V.I., http://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1918/jan/07.htm
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Atheism, poetry, Reason, Religion

Jesus the Insane

jesusman

I was down at the market today

And I found myself assaulted

By the master and the way

And a foolish man undaunted

He claimed he was the son of god

And that he had the answer

To all the questions simple and odd

And a way to prevent disaster

He’d take all of my sin away

If I would but follow his dictates

He’s quite the charmer I should say

But not a favorite of the prelates

He smelled a bit of fish and wine

And his hair was a bit longish

But his principles were fine

If just a bit cultish

What really got my goat, you see

What really got me pissed

He told me to abandon my family

And to forget that this world exists

I laughed then and called him mad

And he frowned and called me a fool

But his movement will end up just a fad

Like that silly golden rule

I heard they crucified the bum

Why’s not hard to explain

He claimed to promise Kingdom Come

But he was, of course, insane

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