Eliot - Empty Society

September 03, 2017


Free to be empty,

To have been deemed, esteemed, pre-empted

And had schooling in the ruling to be inarticulate

Free to accept of what has been decided

What’s been provided

By the engine drivers of the choice machine:

Buy their tablets, clothing, bet and booze regimes

Be free to slouch in what has been presented

(It’s the latest been invented!)

Educative thought’s anathema prevened

Confined like stock, whipped wild with willow wands

Thus rounded up

In a compound block

Herded but lost

Steer impounded in their purlieus

The milling time’s unlighted tools

Whom the cattle masters handle, herd as silly fools

Brash carcass-mongers

Regarded spongers

Their vast state-factories proliferate new phones

Squeeze out the marrow from a soft consumer’s bones

They juice, they noose, possessing kidded captive crowds

They process which their lusts the herded beefs ought to profess

They Entertain them

They Aeroplane them

Gallivanting thus afar athirst for baubles

At a cost of a cheap air fare, and a few loose marbles

To Korea, Indiana, California

The adventure venues of the common person

Bali, The Baltic, India, Japan - go tropical!

Go hook a cruise, go nearer or go far

On a branded trip

As a captive cargo on slaver ship

And bought by phoney money savings as the sums of Baal

A pretended snip

To be spent on ship, your time in jail!

Free, free, to be discarded, left a wanderer

In the backwood individual slums of human hope

A potential disregarded

A consensual product market

And among the few who know, their boardrooms’ sitting target

These who know a base left-handed sort of knowledge

Who know the weak persuade, the simple cherish,

And how to use such weaknesses, exploit with relish

And sell – a grovelling hell – wherein a burning smell

Reeks of suggestion

Of repossession

And dereliction

Of bankruptcies and ruined families

Who’d tangled with the barbed-wire-hung blood-money trees

And so solicited to fail

And they leave a sorry trail

An audit trail of centuries recedes behind them

All for the croupe

To make its scoop

And to wallow in the bathtub of quick money credit

The predators


These intellectual heritors Mephistophelic

No pointers, forward paths, no light of day,

A swathe of lowly people seethe, sink under sway

Without good understanding, unawares of recognition

That lives are more, much more, than meagre super-acquisition,

Their gadgetry and sports rapports; these things are not their physician

Shovelled with circumstantial casual whiles-aways

Smothered with insubstantial pastime pageantries

Unused to concentrate, to a proper estimation

To win adroit emancipation from a reason’s sleep

Locked up in keep

Or cast on deep

Without a compass

Make ritual rumour rumpus

Inscribing of their need upon all Christian hearts

There is no other way to go, I know no other port,

Passage prepare, prevail My Lord, who walked the stormy sea,

Carry them home, and consort them amongst your salvagry