I resolve, if the occasion should recur, / to uncheck my tongue and say, “I love the spectacle / of maggots condescending to a corpse,” / or, “You should be so lucky in your brainy, bloodless life / as to deserve to lift / just one of D. H. Lawrence’s urine samples / to your arid psychobiographic / theory-tainted lips.” / Or maybe I’ll just take the shortcut / between the spirit and the flesh, / and punch someone in the face, / because human beings haven’t come that far / in their effort to subdue the body, / and we still walk around like zombies / in our dying, burning world.
There are great individuals, free-thinkers inspired by nature, and the Gods, but nobody reads them, not because they have nothing to say, but because they have too much to say. The greats: Jeffers, Pound, Miller, and Lawrence above all could heal us, and heal our world, yet without a single public book burning, or their books being banned— at this time— few have read these luminaries, because the powerful propaganda of our cancel-culture fills the heads of students, and the public, with the psychopathic ramblings of insane academics, who are ungrounded in the Eternal— and these monsters, such as Millett, claim the greats committed some sins, deemed as such, by the political correctness inquisition, held in the ivory towers, and dominated by lesser minds, and tools of the system— So the greats are avoided like the plague without having been read, and so our machine civilization marches on. We need to be saved. The great ones can help, but we must read them, and ignore the post-modernists, post-structuralists, post-humanists, post-whatever so we may not just become post-machine, but machine free, and live in a world where the great ones are counted as great, and the writings of the fools, liars, and hypocrites who disparage them today may be consigned to the rubbish bin of history tomorrow.