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breakfast at beulahland

January 7, 2012

Sipping on my third cup of coffee, now,
and feeling my guts begin to stir,
as a soccer game plays in the background of my favourite breakfast joint.
My thoughts
occasionally focus on the game
but are mainly directing towards proving people wrong on the internet,
a collection of mostly anonymous bastards and twats
including myself.
Never imagined that I’d be called
a ‘far left extremist’
simply for arguing against the use of torture.
It’s certainly a strange world, indeed,
where hawks swoop in and verbally disembowel
peaceful doves
in their insatiable lust for Thrasymachian justice,
and are applauded all the more as patriots for it.
Aston Villa scores again,
and my thoughts turn from patriots to arete,
the excellence of the individual in the face of all adversity
so well characterized
within the heart of American exceptionalism.
Ah, America,
that “shining city on a hill”;
land of the free-range consumer,
home of the brave imperialist.
Conquering the hearts and minds
of the world
with bombs made with loving-care and a tender-touch.
The nike of dike,
which is nothing but the “advantage of the stronger,”
as Thrasymachus eternally argues in Plato’s Republic.
Another goal,
as if Aston Villa is punctuating the point,
driving it home
like a ball through the metaphorical net of neoliberal ideology.
And with enviable skillfulness,
the clever orators of our day,
turn freedom on its head
over and over again,
with sweet words that pay lip service to justice,
while secretly affirming,
in their heart of hearts,
that “unjust is what profits man’s self and is for his advantage.”
They beseech us to enthrone
our baser desires as kings;
triumphantly proclaiming, “We are all rational individuals now,”
or so they’d like us all to believe.


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