Oh, not again!

Am I the only one bored to death

by the warnings of a dire future,

then no action taken?

What about the present, the now?

I was born in 1948 and grew up with

awfulness, family memories of human horror

now being repeated in many locations.

My few surviving forebears knew that

what is destroying the earth (possibly further)

is Shakespeare’s paragon of animals,

the “piece of work” of God,

cynically and accurately mocked by Hamlet.

Humans/paragons et cetera ARE actually part of nature,

not interlopers.

Look at our affinity with

earth

air

water

fire.

These elements = us!

Let’s compare a tadpole

and an early human fetus.

They are almost the same to the human eye:

no digits; folded boneless limbs,

empty skulls …

all suspended in “water”

BUT the human head is bigger.

Why?

Is this magic, dogma, science, logic, bias?

In 2023, few of us seem to think at all:

We posture, mime and write detritus.

We protest in prominent locations world-wide

at expensive conferences (with cameras watching).

And then?

The dreaded silence of nothing.

This is black comedy, really: look at the Bard’s jesters:

They are so sad that they are amusing

IF we do not think …

so nothing changes.

We need to stop play acting

unless we are in a play.

Let’s consider a few small people who have huge power.

Trumpty Dumpty, the Ridiculous;

Putin the Pink, Plump and Small;

Xi, of the Dead Eyes;

Jong un, the Short and Square, obsessed with huge missiles;

Further back, Thatcher, the bossy,

the Nemesis of workers BUT a worker herself.

There are also the ingenuous marchers:

Boris, our “buddy” of the ill-groomed hair;

Truss of the 45 days;

Pence et al., with quick steps as they follow behind;

Desantis, the “saviour” seeing himself as the Dragon Slayer …

Human history is crowded with this ilk,

set on destroying the six capitals

one by one OR all at once

at the altar of ego.

Our blighted earth and species

are proof of the end game.

Onward, self-serving soldiers

marching on to “war”

with flags reflecting your own faces

marching on before.

Just horrible …

locus mortis,

culpa nostra ^[1].