Who Will Wait For Us

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
The time it is now,
     The time is always now
But the future we expected
     Didn't happen -- somehow
When I tell a story
     It is that story I must tell
That the world went not to heaven
     How the world went to hell

It gets so very close
     As close as close can be
As fire falling from the sky
     As lightning on the sea
A story of four women
     And a story of six men
We may guess how it ended
     But where does it begin?

Time waits for no man they say
     It travels on ahead
And when it catches up with you
     You find that you are dead
Ancient man fled the sinking sun
     Moderns fled the ticking clock
When the clock stopped ticking
     Did it stop the crowing cock?

Time waits for no man they say
     Though he wake or sleep
Who waits for men they ask
     With yet his watch to keep
To his pocket he returns
     The time is half-past five
The sounding gun, the sinking sun
     May yet catch man alive;

Time waits for no man and yet
    Its bright engine gives only pause
Only pause in brief consternation
    To curse its harshest laws
That the blind may be the seeing ones
     That the weak may yet be strong
That the lame may dance instead
     That the silence become a song;

Time waits for no man - the truth
     That few care to grasp
A remnant still remains they say
     Whose remembrance of this task
Sleeps in solemn, far places
      Deep, outside and beyond
In memory, in words forgot
     As in the depths of a pond

Yes - time waits for no man at all
     And neither suffers he to wait
Though what comes leaping around the bend
     He cannot anticipate
Does woman remember that she once
     Brought time and death on men
That she once shattered paradise
     And will shatter it again?

When I tell a story
     It is the story I must tell
Now how things went to heaven
     But how things went to hell
Man both must fight and flee
     For when each choice is clear
When he sees the buddha in the road
     He must kill him with the spear

The time it is now
     The time is always now
But the future we expected
     Didn't happen - somehow
Man, his works persist despite
     That dust must come to dust
Pause a moment that you may ask
     "Who will wait for us?"


Canticle for Mentation


it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
I have been taught to forget,
Though I shall not yet remember
The mind is a blowing wind
The heart but a flashing ember
Turn and bring the wind down,
Will the flames to burn higher
Then shut out the air's breath
And make the furnace dryer
Thoughts pass and I am a lake
I am a lake cold in the sun
A reflecting pool still and dark
Across me they lightly run
Back from the depths the dead
Call them and ask them why
They will tell you a story
So never utter a single lie
Never lie and they will be true
Though you will not remember
The mind is a blowing wind
The heart but a flashing ember.


Rain Comes

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
RAIN COMES, it is not the sound
But the suddenness of it sounding
The strangeness of air in which it is drowned
Though silence soon it is drowning
The lightness of the sky broken by drops
Crystal-bright in their dropping
A shadow of heavy air that stops
And the break of that heaviness stopping
Gray and black the glowering cloud
Bluster and boom in its clouding
To announce a doom to the gath'ring crowd
Made soon enow by its crowding
By strange device, in the west of the eve
Shows forth the sign of the evening
The liquid sun, to take its leave
Blasts rain alight in its leaving.


To Nothing


it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
THE VOID is alive with the sound of music
some go down, others rise above
too fraught with meaning, far too quick
for the earthly mind to grasp the love
which reaches beyond nothingness
and makes new all things, nonetheless
of the terror that I now see in their eyes
When they know that nothing truly dies.


The Cathedral


it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
An empty chair, the tall Cathedral
Who sits? Is it a game of thrones
Or just a forsaken free-for-all
Glass houses are not made of stones
But instead of vying for that seat
Reds vie to elect the bishopric
To whom their blasphemies will stick
They won’t keep his eucharist neat
No musical chairs; this is a nave!
And stonings they're having for the brave
Their faith is strong, their zeal has heat --
Their communion ends inside the grave.
a postscript is here written:
'The Cathedral' is the mocking term Mencius Moldbug gave to the system of leftism or progressivism which combines a variety of semi-incoherent and variably malicious forces and ideologies that form the 'zeitgeist' of our era. It has a secularly religious nature that defies normal classification as a 'religion' (a definition the system itself generated to protect itself - those who participated to preserve their status and livelihoods) and so we explicitly identify it as such. 

Everyone has their own term they use for this structure, depending on what part of it they most interact with, as might be suggested by the 'blind men and an elephant' metaphor. The point of the term 'the cathedral' is not so much that it is 'elephant', since what would that mean to blind men - but that, like terms describing spiritual entities who cannot be directly seen, it says something of utmost importance about the thing, a title, which is blasphemous to THEM, and clarifies their most deceptive aspect - the religious nature of the 'non-religious' structure itself.

This image is of one of the chairs of St. Peter (there are apparently several that the Pope may occupy) but it is only chosen for its appearance (and the style of the photograph) and for the fact that the Cathedral hates the Vatican (despite the fact it seems to love the most recent Pope.)


Crocodile Song


it is addressed thusly:

A song.
it reads:
A chisel line to mark the portrait
Carved with utmost skill
A perfect weapon made more perfect
In exhaustion of our will
As subtle in its execution
Though clear its style, its convolution:
To hail you must revile
They all hail the Crocodile

A beast unleashed when finished growing
Let to go afield
And made greater in its error
Though it be revealed
And shown in grotesque ugliness
And crimes it must be made confess
Only spill its bile
They all hail the Crocodile

Did someone tell those haughty drivers
Superfluous they were?
A beast they manned as though in driving
They still held the spur
A shade a shadow only riding
And while their spoils were still dividing
It ate on all the while
They all hail the Crocodile

Let them believe that bad is goodness
Let their eyes be blind
To bring about our good professor's
Single state of mind
That all men be the poorest workers
A unity of bottom lurkers
As flat as plastic tile
They all hail the Crocodile

But how we get from this debasement
To our paradise
Can be worked out by our replacement
Pulled and picked like ice
That magic step where Rome and Paris
Are bathed in justice and in fairness
Red shakespeares every mile
They all hail the Crocodile

And for some rede beyond description
With a bestial glee
We loathe these ones now ruled by envy
Before us let them flee
And though our plan made this conclusion
Created raw from our confusion
Sawtooth is our style:
They all hail the Crocodile!


Laboring Song


it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
A time of sun and raining, a moon as new as the day
The sky both blue and flying with banners of gold and gray;

A thunder time and a lightning to call the clouds from the south
The shadow of sun in its setting the calm of night from its mouth;

A time for writing and reading, a time for sitting in thought
For watching the moon as it rises, for stirring the tea in the pot;

The bleach-brown days now coming, the time of the sun in the noon
Despond makes dark in its brightness, the singer fails from his tune;

As love is desire's companion, arrives when the other is gone
Calling him yet unlooked-for, when duty had carried on;

So diligence makes its recourse, where spirit had burnt out its wick
Gave birth to a flame through weeping: a time to water the stick.
a postscript is here written:
watering the stick john the dwarf