Every desperately independent thinker wishes to capture the spirit of the age, or rather, the spirit of the life of the society in which he hovers below, around, and above in an assuredly simplistic, graspable formula, that merely satisfies the need for self-justification, or a feeble self-satisfaction, in the attempt at his truth, at a digestible present.
Here is such a modest attempt, caused by a mania, induced as always, by reading the economics textbooks. Its an exaggeration, and a projection, but it nevertheless aims at truth. It is associated in my mind with "Born to Run" by Springsteen.
Bleed for the sun, suck from a fungal fountain.
Material Institutions!
Gyrating for the transcendental in the alcohol tunnel.
Life does not exist, raping, scrubbing the future.
The age of narratives.
The great man wedded to the great system,
like life to philosophy, love to smelters' waists,
where dreams are dissected to spill industrial broth.
And sin is the social reject boiling under a stately flame.
One will cry out for a transcendental public life - for Napoleon.
He is dead, but we will resurrect the dead, with the unborn youth as the unhappy audience of our various magic tricks.
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