Rode my bike, not very far.
I guess it's better than by car.
I wish I could get healthy,
Not just more money wealthy.
For true wealth for sure,
Is to find a cure
To all my stagnation,
My Ego inflation.
Eating this junk food,
Although it tastes good,
Is just like that beer.
It muddles this Seer.
It calms my hunger,
A temporary cure.
But not the real thirst,
My loneliness burst,
That implodes my ambition,
Not an exploding rendition
Of healthy Heart Song.
Let's just play electric ping-pong.
Or stick-in-the-needle,
Or sexual rock-the-cradle,
Or silly sit-coms,
Or Action flicks with bombs.
There is always something,
Compelling to clip my wings.
All those smart MBAs,
Marketing PR men sway,
We domesticated cows,
with their whiz-bang Wow's.
Just look at any local store,
On average shelf or counter.
Where is the True health?
Is it all about wealth?
Not Ours but just theirs.
How come no one cares?
About us cows in the pens,
Addicted to stupid magazines.
Which fill up our brains;
With trivial, insipid refrains.
Whole universes there,
To steal attention from here.
We sit next to each other,
Watching TV's compelling smother.
Thinking we do relate.
By my side she does wait.
But what of our lives?
Our stories? Our bee hives?
The buzzing of our seeing,
Where sweet nectar might be being?
Watching Dramas or the Soaps,
Do they really help us cope?
Or do they substitute,
Real life for antidote?
And is MBA's cure,
To replace real Life's stir,
With false and glitzy product,
With a "You can't say no" addict,
Just a new slavery?
Without the chains to see?
No one's selling us on the block,
Lifting our skirts to see our Pox.
But the chains seem very real.
My Life they surely want to steal.
We call it the "Free" Market.
Orwell would smile and appreciate,
The clever misappropriation,
Of the term severed from its creation.
And any semblance,
Of a true remembrance
Of what True Freedom means.
Of how a wild bull seems.
His eyes are bright and alive;
To See, his sight does thrive.
A magnificent creature,
So different from the features
Of domesticated fools,
Stripped of all their living tools.
Our eyes are dull and dying.
Controlled is all our flying.
Just follow the herd to Butcher,
Believing we're all the richer.
Living in the dung heap.
All alone, ourselves we keep.
Follow the Herd to Butcher
by Loveson G. Flower
7/9/97
Photo of Swiss Cow by Loveson G. Flower
