A Knave of the First Rate

"Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test,

Which is the basest creature, man or beast

Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey,

But savage man alone does man betray:

Pressed by necessity; they kill for food,

Man undoes man, to do himself no good.

With teeth and claws, by nature armed, they hunt

Nature's allowance, to supply their want.

But man, with smiles, embraces. friendships. Praise,

Inhumanely his fellow's life betrays;

With voluntary pains works his distress,

Not through necessity, but wantonness.

For hunger or for love they bite, or tear,

Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear.

For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid:

From fear, to fear, successively betrayed.

Base fear, the source whence his best passions came.

His boasted honour, and his dear-bought fame.

The lust of power, to whom he's such a slave,

And for the which alone he dares be brave;

To which his various projects are designed,

Which makes him generous, affable, and kind.

For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,

And screws his actions, in a forced disguise;

Leads a most tedious life in misery,

Under laborious, mean hypocrisy.

Look to the bottom of his vast design,

Wherein man's wisdom, power, and glory join:

The good he acts. the ill he does endure.

'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.

Merely for safety after fame they thirst,

For all men would be cowards if they durst.

And honesty's against all common sense,

Men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defence.

Mankind's dishonest: if you think it fair

Among known cheats to play upon the square,

You'll be undone.

Nor can weak truth your reputation save,

The knaves will all agree to call you knave.

Wronged shall he live, insulted o'er, oppressed,

Who dares be less a villain than the rest.

Thus sir, you see what human nature craves,

Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves;

The difference lies, as far as I can see.

Not in the thing itself, but the degree;

And all the subject matter of debate

Is only, who's a knave of the first rate"

~ Lord John Wilmot, excerpted from A Satyre Against Mankind (1675).

Chancre

We rot

and shed our ambitions

in mangy, leprous strings;

Flaking putrescent failure

couched in lofty dreams and pretty, painted sentiment.

Each successive step

yields a complimentary wound –

A festering chancre

which stains,

scars,

then fades with time.

Lost to memory,

Hidden from sight;

Covert

and waiting.

Insidious

Infectious

Pernicious

Imminence

With faltering stutter-steps
we walk
In movements that mimic Vivaldi's staccato
The progression of a circle
which believes itself to be a line

She grasps my arm, pulls herself
closer
Whispers words so succulent and desirous
that I notice not the cascade
of concrete and steel which falls like rain

Our history contracts around us

From an apex
a Faustian promise jumps,
soars on Icarus wings
with head slightly bowed
to hide its eyes,
from the menacing gaze of the sun

_