The Visit of the Fourth Horseman

The horseman of the apocalypse, the fourth of that immortal breed, shows off his skill – the others are impressed. What pestilence, what satisfying suffering.

 

Despite his might, this is, not yet, the time for pandemonium; just testing the potential is aim of these, the grimmest riders.

They gallop through deserted streets, across the frightened fields, inspect the brooding forests. The horses’ hooves resound on country roads not safe for any country.

They still resist, says number three, they are not ripe, laments the knight of war, no conquest yet, sighs Antichrist.

I fear that my experiment has made the humans obstinate, says bold Thanatos. How long we have to wait?

No worries, my impatient friend. Complacency and egoism will soon regain their throne – that’s when we strike again. But next time all together!

The Boomers’ Last Dance

There is something beautifully melancholic watching the old folks dance under the Moonlit sky; the whisper of the waves adding a second beat.  A ray of light shows faces, and we see they are familiar, Bernie, Joe, Elizabeth, Mike, Amy. Of course, we say to ourselves, these boomers would never leave the dance floor without a nostalgic and sad set of last dances. And a dance contest it is, too.  The tired bones seek the honour of the ultimate square off with their contemporary from the opposing group, the reigning champion. They all condemned Pete as a greenhorn interloper not worthy of the contest, although Pete, in fact, is a crypto-boomer. Not for boomers to leave the dance floor to others, though, and now he is gone. (I know, I know, I am being kind to Bernie, Joe and Mike. Technically they do not even qualify as boomers, although their mind-set does).

It is hardly news that the boomer generation is egotistical through and through. From the time its denizens could throw their first paving stones the generation has been setting society’s agenda. Many years ago someone said that when boomers become old designer cemeteries will become the new craze. We are not far from that.

The songs the boomers dance to are pre-boom ‘As time goes by’ and ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ – all forgotten is ‘I hope I die before I get old’ although the refrain ‘talkin’ ‘bout my generation’ still goes straight to boomer hearts! Boomers celebrated their youth, and continue doing so, and, of course, the youth of succeeding generations is of miniscule interest in comparison. The accusation of ageism is a beautifully self-serving boomer invention designed to neutralise any suggestion that their time is up.

But up it is! What we experience is last gasp boomerism, and it could thus be ventured that we should not worry too much about the next election, because it is, after all, only about the next four years. Yet, four years is a long time in politics and the danger is that the destruction that has taken place apace over the last few years will continue and will lay waste to the foundation of the society that following generations will want to build – not to speak of the possibility of incompetent or negligent triggering of the apocalypse. As the boomers slow dance into the dark it must be made sure that they do not take the future with them, although it would be so boomer to go out with an ‘après nous, le déluge’!

Springtime Requiem

‘Eternal spring’ will not be understood by future generations,

only summer will exist for them – and dreary winter.

‘Awakening’ as season, all promises and carnal dreaming, will be a thought of distant past,

as will the melancholic transport into hibernation, the role of autumn heretofore.

The warming Earth kills nuance, not just many species,

we live in polarising times whilst poles are melting.

It may be happenstance that the diverse is welcomed less by nature now –

an epoch of humanity when conflict is the valued asset and gentleness recedes apace.

A fallen angel’s master plan

Last in the Beelzebub series:

‘ The end is nigh’,

the credo of the centuries

of those who longed there and those who felt despair.

But ‘end’ is gracious, is truly not my style.

Eternal repetition, each cycle new and cruel,

that’s more a Devil’s script.

I shall not spare the world –

and humans are too foolish

to frustrate my design

when true to nature I have drawn.

I love the naked beauty of misery’s domain,

to witness the extravagance by which benevolence is thrown aside

and malice is allowed to reign supreme.

With such material my plans will never ever fail.

Beelzebub’s lullaby

Next in the fallen angel series:

 

Sometimes when I dream I ask myself

what could have been, what would have been, what were I truly meant to be?

Yet, when awake I never doubt my greatest choice,

to be a fallen angel.

Why hesitate when blessed with all the love that only hatred brings,

when all the wild commotion, the killings and the passion,

is my most stunning work, the product of my deepest instincts.

No God without the Devil, that’s what they say,

but they are wrong, when things are well considered.

All that is ever needed

is me, is Beelzebub, is my resplendent soul.

My power is delight as well as sorrow,

a fallen angel carries light and shadow in his breast!

 

Beelzebub’s birthday

First in a fallen angel series:

You humans dream of good, but long for bad,

you make it much too easy.

Time gave you peace and property –

yet that was all too boring.

Like moths you seek my flame,

devour you, I shall, since that is what you wish.

My hope was, though, for greater gift,

for stiff resistance and at last surrender,

for valiance and need of all my cunning.

Where do I find a being

who is, if not my equal, then a noble challenge?

To win a human is the triumph of the easily impressed,

but I am Beelzebub, the conqueror of strongest hearts.

I merit better than such trifling, drooling human wreckage!

I want a Faust who does not seek my help, who spites me, not co-opts me,

who seeks the sacred moment and wagers all to win immortal soul.