Callous apathy faces tragedy
better than a tether
to a justly, mustly, moral weather.
When a raincoat will do you just fine,
as a cold equanimous outline
keeps your soul from the cold until the sun shines.
So cool your tantrums child,
my memories will not be defiled
by a so certain insistence
that a love should be built on persistence.
A rose by any other name is still perennial,
it's not a fault of my milennial mind
that I don't want to flog a horse
when I watched it die.
But the bittersweet butterscotch kisses,
of a heart yearning for a love that it misses,
reminds me that a person is built from their wishes,
and the future is a blossom of these dishes
that I'm doing day and night you ungrateful scum...
you think my therapist is doing this for fun?
I'm not some object of your desires to be knelt on
because my face seemed to match the description
you once whispered to the boy fairy,
pulling out your teeth cause they weren't ready.
And I get it, I'm not good at this anger shit,
if I cut too close, I might hit truth
like some blind surgeon in a confession booth,
covered in bloody art...eries.
If gender is performative, and formative,
informative consent should form the basis of our graces to our heirs.
We're all holding aces we can't show
because the air's so stagnant no-one dares to breathe
lest they know that we're still living.
But I don't have the answers man,
I'm just living heart to hands,
I mean, I can't even solve problems with the people I love.
So how can we have compassion then,
for a tyrant who's fashion sense
is built on 1940's Machiavellian catastrophy?
A banal and Orwellian blasphemy,
as the Jewish class of '25 sees the one-way mirror from the other side.
And the bulk of the peace-loving nations,
those slow-moving crustaceans,
sit and watch their friends take a beating.
What is this I'm eating?
It tastes like dopamine,
as the phone-screen fiend that lurks within wonders who it can trust.
You were supposed to save us Elon Musk!
Well isn't there some transcendental stance?
From the optimist apothecary's next advance?
To put me in a trite robotically perfect dance,
grinding out enlightenment, one foot before the last?
Is this one-ness I'm feeling a Cooper-pairing in the lattice of human inter-subjectivity?
Can we somehow sense,
not the contents of each others' thoughts,
but the musicality of their intentions?
Does the passion in our faces and the movements in our bodies
betray a rhythm that we recognise?
Like cuttlefish catching feelings.
And by that, do the fluid forces of empathy and herd intelligence
move to corral our better natures based on
some primordial urge for togetherness and for out betterment?
In the name of the Mother,
her Daughter
and their Trans-Femme Ally,
I bless thee.