Unquiet Desperation
May 18, 2021, 02:01:13 AM *
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.

Login with username, password and session length
Sorry, you must be logged in to use the shoutbox!
News: Post in our Creative Philosophy board... if you can.
   Home   Help Login Register  
Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10
 on: July 09, 2013, 06:33:27 PM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
I believe in evolution. It makes absolute sense. Darwin's theory was brilliant yet, and as these great leaps in human understanding ever do, needed the tweaking/change of the modern day. As by Dawkins, and Jones.

Dawkins posited in his book The Selfish Gene (taken literally by some, as a title only, as proof that Right-wing politics, unfettered individualism, is a vitalistic inevitability), that the gene of the title has evolved to ensure that humankind must be civilised; that our survival as a species is best-served by the creation of societies within which there is an important element of inter-dependence. Its "selfishness" only towards this end and no other.

Darwin, as far as I know, regarded humankind in his day as having departed the visceral nature of evolution below him, the scurrying around in the undergrowth, the savagery of the jungle etc, never to return to it, having evolved beyond it; this is much the same, in principle, as Dawkins eloquently explains in his book. Jones's contribution, brilliantly done too, places Creationism on the spot, being a balanced proof of the mastery of science in the search for any irrefutable truths.

The Right in politics have held sway for the past 30 years. Every justification for policy has the default position of it "furthering the rights of the individual", yet only it seems in economic terms whereby all freedoms, all degrees of them, are inherently proportional to an individual's spending power. In an almost throwback to the laissez-faire which culminated in left-of-centre movements being founded to bring about much-needed social change underpinned by the fight for social justice, these past 30 years have seen an acceptance, by a supposedly electorally all-powerful "middle class", that this must always be; laissez-faire forever.

Will this never again be challenged as it once was? Will the inevitable swelling in numbers of the also inevitable underclass laissez-faire produces, not challenge it? Is the hard-won right to vote for all around 100+ years ago now worthless? Do the supposedly powerful middle class know how they got the vote in the first place; do they not see the hypocrisy in embracing the very ideology intent on denying them that very vote not so long ago?

The Right have an agenda they may not even realize they do have. Humans have evolved such they can look down on the battle for survival going on below them. The policies of the past 30 years have thrown us back, in principle, into the battle; yet one we are having between ourselves, individually at home, and as nation states worldwide.

The Right unknowingly or not (probably the latter) have, via laissez-faire, climbed the first few rungs on the ladder at the top of which is an outright system of Social Darwinism. Do they have the right to assume they can engineer even a part-return to something we, as a species, have undeniably progressed from - as a deliberate consequence of evolution, by evolution as a natural process in itself, bigger than we are or will ever be, or not?

Is the Right bigger than evolution? Discuss.

 on: July 09, 2013, 01:58:36 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Waking naked, how old was I
when I died? Deep underground
where I had paid to be made ultra-cold;
before I died. To be treated years ahead,
in suspended animation several times,
enough times to be cured.
Had I been forgotten? I seemed alone,
lonelier than when I had had MND diagnosed.
How long ago? There is no-one here to tell.
A small box I felt at the base of my spine,
(my cure?) quietly whirred. Had I been stirred
on a designated time? It was warm in here,
this green-walled room I had never shared.

A wardrobe of my own; special clothes and shoes,
that I would need them. Optimism unbound
in the manual I had read before I was dead.
I dressed and placed a finger, for its print,
on the pressure pad by the door. Stepped out
into another room I did not recognize from before.
Horror, dread, at first earthbound, at the figures,
humans frozen standing in glass cabinets; of all ages,
a family of males it seemed. Then the cosmic terror
as on the opposite wall a glass cabinet all alone;
a naked boy. Me, as I was when about ten-years old.

by Pater

 on: June 27, 2013, 02:26:15 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Tons of information,
too much on how
to build things.
Angles of attack,
sharp edges
reflected in windows
even in grey skies.
Those empty tenements
over the road.
Or blue interiors
as rhombi, narrow aisles
dividing walls. Ceilings
with cobweb-less corners
meeting at ninety degrees.
Carpenter's tools
in chaos on the floor
of a thinker's room.
If one was there;
for when one was here.
A helipad perhaps
when the steel skeleton
at last has a coat; a top hat
for businessmen and the like
to drop in. Then drop out of sight,
leave by the basement door.
Their walk of old fame slowly setting
in the fresh-laid concrete floor.
But where will the people go?
You could wave to them once
from windows across the way.
A long time ago.
by Pater

 on: June 25, 2013, 06:38:28 PM 
Started by MyLittleMonkey - Last post by Pater
Funny how you didn't visit yourself on here. Recently, I mean. Just to pass a comment. On this piece of yours.

Can shit fossilize? In just 3 years? You sure can't polish it - ever.

As you're a self-appointed expert on that palaeontology lark (or palaeo-summat; is there such a discipline as "palaeowritativity" for studying those who have an inclination to often pen stuff?), let us know.

Even if it was possible to shine up a turd this prose would still be beyond it.


 on: June 25, 2013, 04:59:40 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
The same old cokehead drives in,
been away feigning sin; ain't he clever.
Read a book or three, Chinese even,
so he can speak a la mystery.
Quotes a name who never wastes a word,
to whom he must strive while wiping his nose.
His red-raw and runny nose; ain't he clever.

Scaly skin can rest in the mind
while sweet knowledge oozes out,
in the gathering of self-sought mutual love.
After all, they're only words, only the world
experimentals like him live in. Pretend to be clever.

One more cokehead rides in,
sniffs the leftover moulted skin
the others left behind; takes their part
or so he thinks. Gets a hard-on in his head,
why aren't they all at his feet?
He can only imagine it but ain't he clever.
And he'll tell anyone left the score.

Then off and away again for another year,
read some more Chinese Zen and Buddhism;
their poetry and sacred use of words.
Return here sometime to kid his brain
he's clever again. Still a cokehead,
still believing he's someone's djinn.

by Pater

 on: June 25, 2013, 04:23:14 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
"I've not visited this site for some considerable time. Unfortunately it appears to be going through a period of fossilisation; and well, if that is the case. I feel sure that it will be your mark that has made the deepest imprint. Keep posting Pater; it obviously keeps your powder dry...."

Nice. Take a non-self-regarding pill.

 on: June 17, 2013, 02:04:21 PM 
Started by Pater - Last post by MyLittleMonkey
[He stands back in amazement: A reply]

I've not visited this site for some considerable time. Unfortunately it appears to be going through a period of fossilisation; and well, if that is the case. I feel sure that it will be your mark that has made the deepest imprint. Keep posting Pater; it obviously keeps your powder dry....

Here's one for you:

I have friends; its true
some come like snow
at first untouched and pure
then it happens, they get
driven over trodden on
and the sun then comes
and shines a light on
a brown disappearing sludge
bits hang around for ages however
and you always remember
good times you had in the snow
even when its gone forever   

 on: June 13, 2013, 10:56:06 PM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Summer has arrived but the focus of the child,
the flipping of the coin before hormones rise,
the heat, the cool, the wind and rain, the snow,
a young mind can be like the opening of a pine cone,
sensing when they are on the way; a pure smile
in no need of filtering from those unsteady lies
only adults pour out; it is everything yet I am now alone.

That escape clause when thoughts and words grow up,
the distant past as butterflies felt deep in the gut now null and void;
there is a veil draped over a soul-light dampened down
by the initial grey of loss, the still haloed half as someone else,
who has left and survivor's guilt is the living's choice,
fast turning into shame; oh, to be ignorant again.

Now your name I struggle to say; the last time, you were here.
I am paralysed by your passing. How things hit home,
recent nothings become somethings, smells are sharp, voices
haunt in their pressing of the buttons of grief; how long?
I have only the clock I wish to turn back, to make right
the wrongs looming large in my life, dismissed in yours,
some you never even knew about. A moment's relief
when I imagine you'd forgive me anyway. I did love you;
right now I wish I'd never met you. I wish I was a child again.

by Pater

 on: May 29, 2013, 04:48:10 PM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
Take everything,
make all level as you see it.
Material lights fade
without knowing why.

Rake up the ashes
of the burnt out me.
Bag them, pocket them,
scatter them where I died
inside; blinded you'd get there.

Let time fool everyone
of where I lay; feelings
cannot be words on a stone.
In your fake black take them too
as you walk away. Take everything.

by Pater

 on: May 25, 2013, 03:32:31 AM 
Started by Pater - Last post by Pater
How the sun beat down so far away,
how the dust heated and danced,
swirled by the unseen hand,
sandpaper on your bare brow;
your duty to those who think,
think up things yet never really know why.
Your own known purpose beating proudly,
burning behind your breastbone.

Now the son leaves, downed brutally at home,
how the rush of light to dark by chance,
too early in life at the unreachable hands
of hatred and terror; minds of oblivion's own.
How the father breathed on the brink
such a short time instead of those years
far away; like your child its mother
does not know why. Along with them we cry.

by Pater

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 10
Powered by MySQL Powered by PHP Powered by SMF 1.1.16 | SMF © 2011, Simple Machines Valid XHTML 1.0! Valid CSS!