Super-Dooper Super-Servile Bowl Sunday (or something) - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

This is a re-post with modifications.

Super-Servile Sunday

O sink not down into that corrosive couch
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile
Dictating dress, demeanor, drink, and dreams

Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule

Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped
While costumed in their masters’ liveries
And feeling little while thinking even less

The very model of the knee-pants guys
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded through cosmic cattle chutes
Yammering in dim, noisy nothingness

But you –

But you, O you, be not of them, but choose
To be a wanderer in the moonlight
Alone in manly dignity


(The allusions to Milton, Shakespeare, and Keats are deliberate)

Super-Servile Sunday - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Super-Servile Sunday

O sink not down in that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams

Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule

Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped,
While costumed in their masters’ liveries,
And feeling little while thinking even less,
The very model of the State’s non-men

Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded in cosmic cattle chutes,
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness

But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God, there in His holy solitude

Jean Paul Sartre and Francis Thompson Walk into a Bar - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Jean Paul Sartre and Francis Thompson Walk into a Bar...

No Exit 1

I fled it, down the minutes and down the hours 2
I fled it, from each InterGossip troll
I fled it, despairing, with weakening powers
But I could not escape the super bowl

1 No Exit, Jean Paul Sartre
2 “The Hound of Heaven,” Francis Thompson



(I recused myself from the annual high holy day liturgy sacred to the Republic, but can't escape the morning-after conversations.)