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We have much literature out there that gives a record of our world’s spirit, the problems and the individuals that merge with the panorama of our sick societies. These writers of words I talk about, explore the syndrome and consequences of a wretched world, whatever remedy they come up with will not be good enough, perhaps they are more the cause than the cure, so it would seem; impulsive writers today, are no different than yesterday, as will be tomorrow. All they can do is apologize for their dangerous fragmented conflicting statements and actions. Sensualists, sensationalists, they dig deep for the breaking down of our language, in a world filled with narrations, it is not hard to do.
People, places and actions, footnotes and drugs, projections and the human conditions, they all continue unchanged. Perhaps we are being tickled too much.
Gossip, too many pronouns, we are all foreigners on this planet; we’ve come from someplace else–believe it or not. Yet, we await our fix, and forgo the actions needed to put things in order–all we got are flat statements of external events…!
We have a civilization with angry eyes, living on the murky shore, condemned to exile on this earth, to dreams and ugly riots, and gutter criticism. We see in so many poems–this kind of writing; the crippled art of modern poetry, ravaged scenes; oh, it’s perhaps all true, but must we relive it, can our stomachs hold it in–how long? It gives us dreary nights, let’s find beauty in literature, and perhaps we will find beauty in life.
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