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London Savages
A Message For the Imperialists
How bleak, London savages with thou material gains.
Thou opened the gate, savored the warmth.
Soon thou shalt burn.
Drink your brews, wield your infernal sticks and again.
Every wretched voodoo portal has a price.
Not evolution nor advanced intelligence, this opening of unclose-able gates.
And further, to use it to control.
Your reward is doubtless the acquaintance of hell’s denizens.
Darkness is thy threat.
The unknown is one’s enemy.
To elemental magic, inured you are not.
Yet, you toss it like a shit-stained washcloth.
This ship, this fire stick, those animal skin shoes.
The song, the liquor, the written word.
No less magical than this land.
You may as well be stomping your feet.
Your savage glare at this underwater candle.
I am not ‘evolving,’ you know.
I am the madness. I am the order.
Somebody must fix this boiler, mad human.
I see the machine as a demon to appease.
Still, I see burner, combustion, circulation chamber, exhaust.
I am educated in the world and its shadow.
You cannot separate the dance from the stillness.
Flour, water, in an oven make bread.
But no flour can you find. No water — not a drop.
Only the process is sparklingly clear — the dance of the jungle.
No head — no ego — no concepts.
What is more voodoo than that?
It’s news to you — the dance, the madness.
Jung’s wild rumpus — shadow self, long hidden.
But the children of Darwin aren’t news to us.
In visions, we saw the violence, the theft, the smear.
As primordial society, we opened countless portals.
Have we not been told of such comings?
It’s written on relics unaltered in our lineage.
Of your fate, we know much more than you.
The waterfall always flows slowly at first.
Elemental voodoo disguised as bliss.
You still see a machine, not a demon.
There lies your fault.
Not all demons have horns and big eyes and stare.
Demons tear you apart, anything, in any form.
And demons will no longer serve when the chalice is empty.
A hundred years — a thousand for the manifest bloom.
When it takes shape, you will wish that you stayed.
Stomping on the ground — primordial beasts.
Dress yourself, for God’s sake.
Processed plants, animal skin, drench yourself in perfume.
Such things set you apart from the beasts you despise.
Some jewelry, some elemental magic — A Wolf in God’s clothes.
You won’t be the first nor the last to open the portal to hell.
Nor are you the last to assume our acceptance as someone below.
Luck Traveller to find the completion you seek.
Though looking back, such faffing you may regret.
Oh, to remain with the earth not bequeathed to the voodoo.
Someday, dirt I will be, sooner than later.
All experience reflects what has passed.
And traveller, when too, the dirt we share.
You will learn that great lesson once again.
