art by banksy






an as-long-as-it-rhymes scribble …





just what am i doing, scribbling these vaguely rhyming rhymes,


as people are disposed of willy-nilly, in these terrifying times.




where riches and high office are what matter most,


regardless of the billions of souls just barely surviving, as long as the parties continue, all vying to be the most hospitable host.




just what am i doing, as brokers funnel millions, wading through the murky machiavellian mire,


and as the 99% sink deeper, into the bowels of deprivation dire.




words such as peace and equality and freedom and justice and democracy have been from us putridly pilfered,


snatching our language of struggle away, leaving us with slogans so feebly filtered.




i often ask myself as to why i even bother to belch out so many a scrawny scribble,


impotent as they are, dribbling down as hypocritically doleful drivel.




i have no response to these inquiries so earnestly enquired,


all i can say is that i am sick to the marrow of being so terribly tired.




exhausted, fatigued of carrying in my pocket cold change – always just a couple of coins, and never crisp new notes,


to fling at the coarse beggars who stain the windows of my magical mercedes, even as thoughts of that new yacht in my mind freely floats.




is this the world of humanity? humanity stripped of being kind and being humbly humane,


this callous world of wealth obscene, these ugly societies of greed insatiably insane.




how dare we call this world our collective mother, our mother whom we have so savagely stripped,


of all she has to offer us, her very children who have defiled her, plundering all we can, as we ravaged her being, and as her soul we have ravenously ripped.




we make pompous speeches, we have conferences, we prattle on as we tediously talk,


all the while we lust after this portfolio, and that deal, treating each other as prey whom we surreptitiously stalk.




i have been searching for a home, an abode of peace and stillness, while all around i hear the pin-striped cackling crowd,


the ones who barely see anything beyond their green-backed shroud, where the anthem of greed, they bellow out arrogantly aloud.




the words of religious piety are mumbled, us versus them, our creed, our caste, our tribe, our race, tattooed for all to see on our conscienceless consciousness,


we go to war, we kill and we maim, we abuse and we discard as damned refuse, as we build walls between humans, creating boundaries of morbid monstrousness.




just what am i doing, to really feel alive, to love, to embrace, to share, and to not allow myself to be drawn into the cult of only me, me, me,


but to breathe, to hug another soul, to go against the grain, to simply be, and in being, be.




just what am i doing, to be a part of the whole, to be an infinitesimal grain in our collective soul, to use my bare hands to help save our shared humanity’s teetering tree,


in truth i am doing nothing, i am a mute spectator, not wanting to ever get my hands dirty, to be content to sit on the fence, to perch myself away on a hill, to do nothing at all, but see, see, see …