The bank of practicality is bust:

1 Comments

The bank of practicality is bust:

The rain is falling, the sky is weeping,
The universe is in mourning
Liberation and innovation are dead.

In a new age climate of social colloquialism,
It seems individuality is being stifled
By the debated credence of popular taste.

Skin tight metaphors and raging oxymorons,
When even the sane dress like
The fallout from a holocaust of logic.

They call the type face of neo-classical decadence,
Progress.
I call it regression to repression.

The surrender of the apple to the bearded beauty,
The best friend forever of the serpent,
Laying in wait to destroy the innocence.

Six inch stiletto skyscrapers, on the feet of
A six inch babe,
The reduction of freedom to absurdity.

The renegade morality police are sleeping,
Snoozing in the wake,
Of a nationwide acceptance of failure.

The stream lined Georgian propriety
Is gone and committed to memory,
Let sleeping rats lie.

The price of advancement is folly,
A self-destructive pursuit,
Of an unattainable nevermore.

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DeepEclipse commented on The bank of practicality is bust:

06-08-2010

Damn I like how you wove the metaphor with the meaning. [Six inch stilletto skyscrapers], [The renegade morality police are sleeping] - excellent display of skill. This line strikes true - [It seems individuality is being stifled By the debated credence of popular taste]. The masses are easier to control when they're all cut from the same mold. And gone is the time when you could just do something simply for enjoyment of doing it. If you're not doing it for -gain- then they make it like you're -waisting your time-. The eyes of this poem are impressively wide open. Enjoyed the read.

Narrator

06/25/2010

Thank you so very much for your comment! I am very glad you enjoyed it! Yes I was recently struck by the almost chocking constraints society inflicts on personal expression and development, people have stopped listening to their hearts and are blinded by greed and the mistaken belief they have to comform.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

Unknown Source

Narrator’s Poems (39)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Ablaze 0
A Different Kind of Poet 3
Do You Speak Greek? 0
Dancing Away From Me 4
No Longer An Artist 2
Do not forget 1
Competition 1
To Handsome Stranger 1
Ol' Christopher Marlowe's Day 3
Foolhardy 3
Oh so softly 3
'tis oft now I wonder... 5
Free to Soar 9
Dead Filament 4
Wise Fool 4
Mispent Eternity 2
My Sanguine Knight 3
Crimson Tears 5
Condemnation of alternative expression 6
Sir Lancelot 0
In a courtyard of ages 3
From whence all verse was born: 5
Please Realize 3
Here at the end of all things 0
Enduring Eternally 1
The bank of practicality is bust: 1
They can say what they will, I disagree. 2
Poetry Should Rhyme: 5
A new age: Change 0
Fate of a Soul 2
Oh My Love... 1
Standing Still 1
Where the laburnum blossoms fall... 1
Pulling down the stars 1
New Light 1
Ignorance is not bliss... 1
The Decline 1
Is the music of the soul the song of the wind? 3
Is freedom an illusion? 1