Homo Sapiens: Prognosis, 2055
Posted by Daniel Falkiner
Like a cancer
it grows,
strangling Life,
ivy-like.
Jostling runts
suckle at the shrinking teats.
Not too long now
‘til the mother
is drained
of all her milk.
And in the government
buildings and business boardrooms
the banker sits,
heavy-framed and puffing
on a gold-tipped cigar,
with his
champagne-sipping
politician partner
nodding
and enjoying the view.
They talk of this disease,
and of how to help it grow
for each new thing that
it consumes
rakes them in more dough.
And in the charity houses
and churches
the priest preaches
with the red cross
at his back,
on the sanctity
and preservation
of this parasite.
The people nod,
and swallow whole
these hope-baited hooks.
Cents drop to the floor.
This chemical medicine
saves now the one
and later kills the many.
The old remedy
must be rediscovered -
but who’s child
shall be left at Death’s doors?
Not yours.
Not mine.
Somewhere lurks
this New Physician,
iron-willed
and unflinching
in his mission.
He recognises these malignant growths,
and will carve them from the body,
squeamish not.
But the diagnosis is hard to take
and the patient prefers
to pray.
The planning
and the tablets
and the herbal teas
and condoms
are ineffective.
The old and the sick
linger and pollute.
Shall the surgeons take the scalpel?
Like a cancer
it grows,
strangling Life,
ivy-like.
Jostling runts
suckle at the shrinking teats.
Not too long now
‘til the mother
is drained
of all her milk.
And in the government
buildings and business boardrooms
the banker sits,
heavy-framed and puffing
on a gold-tipped cigar,
with his
champagne-sipping
politician partner
nodding
and enjoying the view.
They talk of this disease,
and of how to help it grow
for each new thing that
it consumes
rakes them in more dough.
And in the charity houses
and churches
the priest preaches
with the red cross
at his back,
on the sanctity
and preservation
of this parasite.
The people nod,
and swallow whole
these hope-baited hooks.
Cents drop to the floor.
This chemical medicine
saves now the one
and later kills the many.
The old remedy
must be rediscovered -
but who’s child
shall be left at Death’s doors?
Not yours.
Not mine.
Somewhere lurks
this New Physician,
iron-willed
and unflinching
in his mission.
He recognises these malignant growths,
and will carve them from the body,
squeamish not.
But the diagnosis is hard to take
and the patient prefers
to pray.
The planning
and the tablets
and the herbal teas
and condoms
are ineffective.
The old and the sick
linger and pollute.
Shall the surgeons take the scalpel?
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Friday, May 12, 2006.
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