Sunday, March 01, 2015

...The Lid Is On!

The End Of Dogma

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Admitting I'm no prophet, or that brilliance isn't mine, I have few facts, and I'm re-miss in knowledge I should find. Smarter motes then me abound, as thick as fleas or flies, and battles with their *phacts* could leave me hammered in your eyes.
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...But then they make assumptions so their *blacks* and *whites* make sense. Their arguments get heavy—much encumbered and entrenched. Too, loath to leave the prominence that has framed their "reputation," these make prevarication or a senseless refutation!
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Then we have them where I've found them, and we see their posits smell. These stumble in their pitch black room—refuse that they're unwell... ...Refusing that they won't know more, or shake their fists at God, these stand at last, complete—revealed! The undisputed knob.
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You say "not so," but they're not looking! Their eyes are on the ground! They cling to their mean insular; they push away profound! They're satisfied with white-bread, though it rots them from within! They are trembling in their countenance—uneasy in their skin.
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You'd say glad "beads" incessantly in a litany construed to take your mind from that which makes the hell that you go through. So, pummeled by your nameless fear you wallow shameful ethics... made by you to hide your fear—destroying our aesthetics!
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Cut and slashed, you cling to hope (or faith which was untested)... ...Your arguments miasma, they're discredited and bested. Confusions in your world view are the nightmares in your dreams; you look around and see the mess—perceive you're not so clean...
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...Your wounds now ooze an ichor 'cause you claim that they're not there, and might never let clean air to them, or let them heal fair. Shambling in this cyberspace like zombies, living dead; STILL you wish, exclusively, the dullest, whitest bread!
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The lid is on, on GOD knows what! Can't you feel it pressing down? Our spirit soars for "reach" and "grasp," but we're mired to the ground! We fight old wars—that long ago reversed what's right or wrong, and now elbow good positions to pretend a *righteous* song.
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The lid is on, on God KNOWS what! You can hear it in the air; the whispers that there's life on Mars ... of a type that's undeclared! Our permeated media is filled up to the brim with alien "abductions," "UFO's" and "black clad men"!
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The lid is on, on god knows WHAT! It's in the planes we build. Aurora just the tip of monstrous "icebergs" crammed, and filled! What's the Hubble really seen? What HAS it found out there, and why are we, then, kept from truth... existing undeclared?
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The lid is on, ON god knows what. You keep up your distractions. All evidence inconclusive, even yours with your detractions.
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Randi said, ironically, "[There are those one shan't convince with a monumental evidence that is rich, and full, and dense. A believer's a believer and will not relate to facts that are counter to a fond belief — they're settled on that track]."
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I cover tiny smiles with the fingers of one hand, thinking, that's an apt description of the skepti-bunky's stand!
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It just may be assumptions made, indeed, are so invalid. ...Assuming *they're* forthcoming? Then be disappointed, Alice!
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Assume the *News* plays heads up ball, and check into a home, dementia's consumed you, and you're senile to the bone. Assume that your *Religion* has your interests at its heart, and be doomed to disappointment as you play your backward part. Assume an honest *Government*, or an efficacious *School*, and become the spineless charlatan, hapless loser, or a fool!



Maybe all three...

Yeah — well... you get to do that in a poem. Splash the right color paint around where paint's prohibited, see where it sticks, and watch who gets the angriest or becomes the most irritated in the application of same. That self-same irritation, I've discovered, is proportionate to how worried the reader is regarding where, or how much of that paint actually sticks, and to whom.  Read:  how right you where.

Read on...

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