An Aimless Amoeba Tries to Quicken the Evolutionary Process

Oh aimless be the turbulent volcano that is this world,
Aimless be the minds and bodies served upon karmic                 
          plates, porcelain thoughts and limbs wandering
          inside a nebula of angst.
Aimless be the regret that stumbles from the electronic
          doors of rattling teeth and strip mall
          socialization.
Aimless be the ancient lover’s neglected bed and the
          rubics cube of normality and aimless the dead
          clocks that rest upon cardboard mantles while
          trees collapse in silence and the epitaph of
          spiritual decorum swoons with all the angels
          who eventually fall from the confused non
          miracle of broken ladders.
Aimless be the decadent floorboards and nostalgic
          ceilings, the defeated spider on Moslem
          tombstones, the devilish pillow case of disgrace
          that lies stained upon the fruitless bed of a
          forever wounded Adam and Eve.
Aimless be the tragic notes of a celloed humanity that
          laments the past and its continual
          misunderstanding, the palm carved in the
          stigmata of a voiceless pilgrim and the gold
          and silver that fails to ease the flowing of acidic
          teardrops falling down like fading stars into the
          galaxy of the heart.
Aimless be the planet’s black book of history that
          refuses to be closed, it laughs into our faces of
          loss and displays a montage of bloody oceans, it               
          reveals an infant waving goodbye to its murdered
          mother and slams a rusty door into the horrified                 
          face of benevolent knowledge.
Aimless be the bones of the past that are piled up at
          the entrance of the mysterious womb while the
          fruit of wisdom rots upon the ground and the
          tragic moan of humanity just drones on and on
          as beauty tries to caress itself back to relevancy.
Aimless be the voice of the demented scorpion, the
          crosses that line nonchalant boulevards, the
          passion that is traded like a commodity on the
          stock market of misunderstood emotion, the
          beaten dog at the edge of the gate and the brothel
          where we whore ourselves in the pursuit of
          illusionary opulence.
Aimless be this extravagance of non-culture,
          chronically hypnotizing the masses with
          messages printed in perpendicular passivity,
          colouring the mind with shades of conformity
          and blessing them with a vernacular of artificial
          consumption.
Aimless be the cannon bearers and the creators of
          violent skies where wounded birds attempt to
          resemble bandages, where the moon refuses to
          enter the periphery of our hollow eyes, where an
          invisible rain is always falling down upon the
          Earth, trying desperately to wash away all the
          illusive particles that have taken up residence
          in the heart of man.
Aimless be the money zombies who gather together
          to sing in the decadent choir, the priests who
          preside over banks and the global village that
          smells of sour sulphur that rises up in a mustard
          minted haze as the crows wave goodbye and
          the multi-coloured soldiers quietly weep on
          the blood stained desert sand.
Aimless be the bovine blues that echo out across the
          vast field of the Universe as the galaxies turn
          away from the coffee shop of human alibis,
          as the ghosts of slaves and Native Americans
          stand horrified before the manna of the future
          and find that it contains no nutritional value.
Aimless be the numb waltz on the darkened floor of
          the great dance hall, the madness of tear gas
          and the dull ache of assassination, the
          whimpering historical body all full of bones
          of non philosophical discussion and the space
          between carnival rides and the decaying carcases
          of a thousand crusades.
Aimless be the stupefying stadium where the heroin
          users try to find a few seconds of sleep beneath
          the bleachers while Christ remains strung out
          on misinterpretation, where the unborn refuse
          to enter wombs and where the mistreated women
          escape behind prescription lives and school yard
          parking lots seeking Hollywood carved
          masculine bodies.
Aimless be the non poetic pavement of desolate
          avenues carved with footprints of despair and
        where a bell tower emanates in an explosion of
          immature missiles and where Quazimodo
          trembles in the corner of a dis-eased cathedral.
Aimless be the circus wheel that just keeps on
          spinning, where drab coloured kings and queens
          are so far out of reach that even the tears of
          starving children fail to move the clinical and
          clock like machinery pulsating behind their
          ribcages.
Aimless be the indifferent slaughter of the spirit as
          it staggers, leaper footed, across the broken
          highway and aimless be this collective karmic
          mess we have created and this continual
          heartbeat of sorrow that is seemingly never
          alleviated.
Aimless be the samsaric garden of empty wine bottles,
          the trash cans of mediocrity, the hysterical
          nonsense of newspaper headlines and the
          metallic teeth of machinery which loosens and
          slaughters the deep roots of ancient trees
Aimless be the political borders that grow like a
          uniformed wall of mad mushrooms, the torn
          edges of Tibetan prayer flags and the historical
          battleground of burning pyres and skeletons
          erecting line upon line of putrid white crosses.
Aimless be the factory where fiction wanders around
          like a soldier wearing a regal crown, where a
          petulant monk approaches midnight with a
          moldy text that says absolutely nothing, where
          love letters become weapons, where children
          weep inside unwritten fairytales and where
          innocence is butchered beneath a full moon and
          the sign of the cross.
Aimless be the wretched wheel that whirls around
          and around, spinning us into a foreign garden
          where the serpent is wrapped about the ankles
          of the deaf, dumb and blinded leaders of the
          planet.
Aimless be the uncosmic horizon, the charred bodies
          of Third World grandparents, the laughter of
          hydrogen and napalm, the hideous metallic
          gargoyle of industrialized weaponry, the hungry
          loins of the economic whore, the cavalcade of
          lost ghost forms wandering across centuries of
          disillusionment and the half dead misdemeanor
          that only breeds bloodshed and mistrust.

Oh but in the centre of it all, amidst all this seeming
          chaos, all this nebulous mass of unconstructive
          confusion, all this trembling and desperate
          anguish that reverberates down the annals of
          time, all this apparent never ending continuation
          of death and definitions of an apocalyptic
          ending, all these words of torment that I seem
          to sing daily . . . an embryo is growing in an
          unseen womb where all karmic calamity is laid
          to rest, where this world of illusion will be
          shattered and where every soul, past and present,
          will be released and allowed to float freely
          toward the ultimate purpose of existence.