One Out of Five

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I can hear it, the thumping bass drum,
The rhythmic tapping of the high hat,
The droning pounding of the
Keyboard bass,
The choppy, distorted guitar
Grinding out a path to revolution.

Then musings on loving a girl,
A wild child, grace-filled,
Dancing naked in the desert—
A peyote dream of rebellion—
The celebration was about to begin.

But it never really did, did it?

The screaming poet sings of numbers
That could rise like skyscrapers
Changing the lopsided landscape—

A wet dream

Absorbed by the sock of sadistic suffering
Held by babies who boomed and made “love”—
Had kids—
Felt the fears fomenting frigidly

In their hearts—now black obsidian—
Hardened by the promises of gangrene scraps
Tossed to the dogs of dereliction.

Agent orange has left the jungle
For jaded hippies, cutting down the army
To one out of five.

The numbers that once were are no longer,
Those who started the rebellion
Have become

Turncoats—

Forgotten hopes of a bygone age
Where progress was demanded—
Progress—it has been lynched,
Strung up by those who set it free
From bondage.

Five to one has become one out of five.

As for me, born in a later age—
I keep the screaming, drunk poet’s words
Alive.

“When the doors of perception are cleansed, man will see things as they truly are—infinite.” —William Blake

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on MyPoeticSide, December 13, 2024.

Tittu