Our stone-age brains are single-minded:
we seek to hurl our genes into the future.
Display your fitness, man, and ride the wave
of giddy, girly admiration!
The muscles, music, mines and millions — aimed to convince
and often to mislead.
The queen stays red and reads the manly strutting
between the lines — life’s race is to the death.
The Botox, high-heeled shoes, the lipstick — all are silly ruses
transparenter than glass or water's surface.
And yet we fall for every one and fly likes insects
towards a warmth that fries us to a crisp.
“But no!” we whine. “We hold our own and matter.
We are postmodern, Marxist and in charge.
We’re self-created, made of human language.
Are we a bunch of dogs or are we gods?
Shake off the chains of jealousy and anger!
Drink Maggie’s mead! Eat not of Darwin’s specious yeast.
Blank is the slate on which we brand our likeness.
We conquer Chaos; we are in Control.”
And yet… the lipstick, the mascara
cling to her face with insolence and glee.
And yet… he spins a peacock’s tale resplendent
which costs so much and only slows him down.
I know this all too well for freedom’s smugness.
My strings are yanked, my head is turned.
I’m kin-selected and expended.
I’m my own man? Hell no! I own me not.
But still, I need you, my beloved robot,
to join me on the searing savannah.
The task at hand is monumental —
to swallow truth without a hint of choking.
Love is not gone, it’s just a grunt within us.
It’s in the patient tools of stone and fire pits.
And if we stick together, if we huddle,
the horrors of the night will fade away.