Thursday, August 13, 2009

THE GLORY OF TOMORROW a poem by Andrew Hennessey.

this is my paradigm - more developed at

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a poem
Andrew Hennessey

I fell down a chasm to the bottom of a frequency pit
where the fallen apples rot
I am Human
Where the extinct Reptilians
undead do not die, and in the twilight the insect hives
do fence the sky with traps and snares and matrix.

Fallen blind I hear but cannot see
the tango of death
rabid alien issues
sucking the life and breath
the ebb and flow of negation
and a variation and theme uniquely mine

as the parade of artificial alien haves effortlessly
dance amongst the wooden have nots
at speeds beyond their straightjackets of perception.

There is an inner calling in the heart,
the love of Christ
and my Kingdom home.
totally life in the eternal heart
an apple never sundered from the tree of life
alive and separate from the malignant carnival 
of dehumanising death
amongst the contrived dust and social charades
of the earthly draconian pit.

you have a bad day in the hatred
as it often hacks and negates the good that is you
yet if you engage the pendulum of vindication and retribution
you become a slave of the wheel of time.
if you do not turn the other cheek
if you engage
first your mind, then your spirit,
then your soul will be swept away
by the torrent of anti-human rage – 
as amoral as the acid in an acid bath
it is the negation of life, of the spirit of human love
of the pattern of Christ in you.
yet if you turn the other cheek and disengage you will be
accused of being meek
but as the alien hardware that invisibly saturates
our artificially maintained demeaning primitivism
blasts out amnesia
you will probably not remember being meek
or even why you came here.

In Elysian there grows a flower
a burning love of social life
an eternity of strength and vigilance
a keeper of true civilisation
and some time we must take that walk
into the bricks and mortar desert
to renew our faith
and our pledges to our Father and His family.

Though in the shadows lurk the serpents
as they sing their songs of disease 
to deaden and leaden our struggle for life
though in this geography of fabric
lurks the demon and its hungry warped
mathematical arrangements and dearly bought
gifts of enlightened death.

Though people know the ignoble lie that this death is life
and that somehow we are prisoners doing artificial time
the only life and future we can be certain of is the one above us
not the rumours of somewhere to go down a rabbit hole
in the dark galactic game of snakes and ladders,
cons and screws

and we hear the chant of death
that there is nothing new under any sun, that creative life 
has ceased to flow in the veins of civilisation
a lie promoted to stupefy and confuse
anaesthetic for the fatted calf 
and we hear the chant of death
that there is no soul from soul-depleted 
and disconnected people
with plans to feast on yours
and we hear the chant of death that there is no
future, no life, no tomorrow, a nothing 
that twists our words into more nothing.

but there is yet a stronger song, a greater hope
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and the Holy Spirit, 
as it was in the beginning, is now, and forever shall be,
world without end, amen.