I’m terribly in tune to spirits of innocence, be who they may be, but particularly to the animals, for there are none of purer intent than they. Think what you may think.
As such, certain things set me off to a wrangling rage of depressive poetry (most of which never make the light of post, and shortly you’ll see why). This time it is the picture in Chris Hedges’ article, ‘All Forms of Life are Sacred’ that Lens1 linked to, in his much admired pictorially and uniquely grammatical; poetically and usual way. It is the picture—the face of hopelessness that has stirred my ire and tempered my poetic expression to incoherence.
Most will see in this image nothing more than a pig–an object, a thing, a beast–going to slaughter (such is the morality of speciesism), never another thought or care given this sentient life; though perhaps mental images of bacon, ham, roast, pickled pig’s feet and dried pig’s ears for the beloved Fido might come to their short-sighted, narrow thinking minds—they may even think it cute. Then, they’ll laugh about it. Deride it. Some make mocking pig sounds as they pass by it.
What I see, is entirely different. I see an innocent intelligent individual doomed to a horrifying existence and sentenced to a terrifying death for the crime of being born into an insane world suffering from the incorrigible disease of humanity.
Here, on way to a brutal ending a fellow earthling–who would treasure human friendship if only given the opportunity—is captured in time. And friendship, friends, is priceless.
I’m angry, yes.
I’m saddened tho’ too
I can make no sense of it
as I stave off misanthropy
only because of you.
Yes, your kindness
lightens this burden darkness.
Tho’ there’s the agony of their destiny
the anger of my plight,
the words of hollow humans,
the cries of incorruptible—
these echoes rubble through my night.
My days lay heavy, weighted
as suffering stirs an endless sight.
A likely fate I’ll likely never fight.
Where is compassion,
in their constant inferno of terror
stealing their every labored breath?
What can I do, that I haven’t already done!
Say, what I haven’t already said
a hundred times over—be damned!
To ease earth’s suffering I’ve lost,
and the world has won, this fucking world—
the deck was always stacked.
My anger is nay a fraction of their agony
I find the world barely tolerable,
held in high contemptible.
Aha, perhaps I am mad,
or the world is mad . . .
or we are both hopelessly insane.