-- aside on a motif from Žižek --
So you’ve made it through the cracks, you slippery eel!
How does it feel, dear boy? How does it feel?
There’s a sandstorm, bud, at your back, for all your zeal.
You’re blind to the sand that sticks to your gummy heel.
And you bragged that your nerves were made of steel!
You’re not Destiny’s child, but a fish from her creel.
See her twist the hook in your jaw to make you squeal
and look you in your face ‘til it turns teal!
Were there no words to cause you to revise your spiel
and think for once on behalf of the common weal?
We’re short on bread while you’re feasting on veal!
You’ve just sit down to your latest and final meal,
and the lamb you’ve chewed has opened your seventh seal.
So welcome to the desert of the real.
We know what you’re gonna do next. It’s no big deal.
[Previous: The Final Words of Tsunesaburo Makiguchi]
[Next: Vanity and Chrome]