Songs of Ruinous Anger

The ordered and disordered thoughts of D. George. A collection of things that amuse, move, inspire and irritate, and of course a number that manage to infuriate. All writings and poetry on this blog are mine, except where credit is given to someone else. I do not own the pictures on this blog except those that look profoundly amateurish and/or contain descriptions pointing to my taking them (such as location and time).

  1. July 29, 2014

    The Good Doctor Khan

    The storm of a contagion spun
    amidst dark heavens and
    metamorphosed into a precipitation
    of blood and tears,
    That name drawn from a river
    in the bowel of a rainforest,
    Watering life, bringing death, twin
    sorts in motion within the
    movements of a cannibalizing mother,
    That thing of untamed viciousness
    driven by instincts of such survival
    as to lay waste to mortal forms,
    In this turbulence of tempests and
    screaming disturbances, the brave
    and the few, of oaths Hippocratic, spirits
    philanthropic and pledges to mankind
    arose in the band of a resistance,
    A struggle not against one’s kind but
    a hidden world of virus and the invisible,
    That universe of microbes, those
    plains of pathogens, endless seas
    of a plague that will not
    be domesticated,
    Towards this Pandemonium of disaster
    they go, exits abandoned for a
    fate unknown, a doom imagined, a
    death that will not be kind should it
    come in the quiet hour of angels,
    Alas, so it was, and come it did in the
    silence and exhaustion of a
    noble task,
    So now, the brave doctor is no more -
    but his name will be kept in the
    grateful heart of a collective memory.

  2. July 29, 2014
  3. July 29, 2014

    1914, and a Century as Aftermath

    I imagine the bloodied soldier
    laid prone in the trenches,
    Black dirt, damp earth, comrades
    clasp his trembling hands,
    And despite their numbers he is
    alone at death’s door,
    Such pleas for miracles go
    unanswered in grief,
    His eyes blink and stiffen, ears ring
    in some sense of the turmoil about,
    No time for analysis, just the
    fear of an end - no mother to hold
    no sibling to grip,
    A body broken by the artwork
    of modernity
    A head to split, a gut to tear,
    feet to shred and lungs to burn,
    And for what grave matter does one
    suffer these for - an evasive mystery
    cloaked in homilies of state,
    So, man and beast recruited for war
    as generals commit the errors
    of their fathers,
    And soldiers once more get to
    the act of dying.

  4. July 29, 2014


    Disturbing though the president’s conduct has been over the past few weeks - attending closed-door fundraisers, all while a crisis blossoms along the southern border, and on two continents away events suggest movements towards total war - perhaps the larger concern ought to regard money’s role in politics. In the United States, the electoral season is perpetual, and congressmen have been known to spend the great majority of their time on the Hill or back in their district offices telephoning wealthy, potential donors to suck up to them. According to Steve Schmidt (a Republican strategist), it is nothing strange at all for him to advise his clients that they utilize more than 80% of their time raising money instead of meeting voters. The two parties have erected every imaginable mechanism that serves as a conduit between donors and campaign treasure chests. Both political establishments can boast their extensive network of mega-rich friends, and knowledge of this might do the masses some good. They know not that the party supremos give both ears to their sugar daddies (or as Mike Huckabee strangely put it in another context, Uncle Sugars), while pacifying their respective bases with pledges to halt gay marriage or raise the minimum wage.

    Simply put, money is too critical to the enterprise for any other concern to trump and replace it. House and Senate campaign committees are thus in even fuller swing (for remember, they never do stop) for the green stuff; and the president has also joined this ridiculous and questionable dance. Often, these fundraisers occur in some wealthy magnate’s mansion (possibly his third estate, and one procured for just such soirees). It being a private residence and all, the traveling White House press corp is not permitted in, instead stationed way beyond the manned and electronic gates; and in this shroud of secrecy, who can guess what parts of the republic are being auctioned off and to which of the fattest and often hairiest of cats go the prizes. And all of this is simply treated as par for the course. As Christopher Hitchens would often say about campaign finance, the scandals lies in not what is illegal, but what is in fact legal. It is only when matters go beyond the criminal that we see people go to prison over this gathering of monetary funds, and over the years, congressmen, lobbyists and governors have been guests of various penitentiaries.

    Not even those cautionary tales will serve to slow this momentum towards ever succulent udders. Clearly, the president for one, seems not to even care anymore what anyone thinks of his behavior where this is concerned, despite his former calls for some strict ethics. The Supreme Court, having declared money a fundamental  form of speech, and therefore not to be so easily curtailed by law, has only made matters worse. Richer and fewer people get to command the attention of politicians and those who seek office, and only a fool would imagine this is not an investment in their own future. This is why despite mass support for some measures, both chambers of Congress might still go about not fulfilling the people’s wishes.

    What to do about this? Well, it has been suggested that the campaign season be shortened some how. In the United Kingdom, parliamentary though one must admit its political system is and thus wholly different from the presidential formulation, the election campaigns are largely confined to a few intense weeks once a date has been declared. The UK also has certain mandates that bar paid advertising over the radio and on TV, and that might likely not fly in this country - perhaps for good reason after all. But maybe the calendar should be shortened. After almost two years of seeing their faces, awash in make-up powder, beaten by winter winds, sweltering under the summer sun, I am sick of whoever it is the final two are, and ultimately who is sent to 1600. All the while, I know that he and the members of that other branch of government are not about my interests, but those of their sponsors and godfathers.

  5. July 29, 2014

    The Tithing of Vengeance

    Keep at it -
    We’re manufacturing
    resistance fighters
    in accordance with
    the clock’s hands,
    Every hour the numbers
    rise in rhythms not of mere
    addition, but exponential
    This be not the year our
    tremors are felt upon the
    But in time, we shall emerge
    in the spectacle of violence
    and armed struggle,
    Knocking on the door of
    your edifice, to collect
    what is owed in

  6. July 28, 2014

    The First Revolt: Original Sin

    Oblivion, overthrown by love
    she rose like a dove,
    Making the devil sourly wait
    in the tempo of his hate,
    And even the saints scampered
    to their god they slandered
    She who ate of a tree
    and rendered all men free.

  7. July 28, 2014
  8. July 28, 2014

    "And it is so, that men must imagine themselves seduced by a woman, instead of getting to the effort of proving themselves worthy of her. I do not acquit myself of this fantasy reveling."

  9. July 28, 2014


    The world was stripped of its
    color in the patterns of
    inhalation with which Greek gods
    took back life from the lungs
    of mortal men,
    In the resulting shades of black
    and white, all was tinged in
    the conversations and rotations
    of grey, grey matter, grey spells,
    We retired to a diner in the center
    of a cosmopolitan enclave,
    gathering the pluralism of cultures
    and past lives brought into union
    beneath the shadow of a statue,
    This Dutch island now turned the
    quintessential emblem
    of America,
    Sending forth like sonic rhythms
    and the properties of light
    a promise of its offerings to a
    world beyond,
    Dark shades won’t do in this
    negation of solar belligerence, yet
    I kept them on in some mild
    Over the incense of coffee and
    sacrament of the croissant Messiah,
    we recited French verse and the
    meditations of Proust et Hugo,
    Voltaire et Descartes,
    Ma chère amie, awoken by the
    recitations of dead men paradoxically
    took to a sleep of deathly slumber,
    Like a resurrection she came alive
    in a Bohemia of green plants
    and old books, shelves carrying
    the accounts of civilizations’
    What is this thing that she does,
    calling me towards her in
    the conspiring tones of Eros and
    a deceitful Zeus?
    Who am I to not fall prey?

  10. July 28, 2014

    Violet in Matrimony

    He bored her -
    that unforgivable sin
    by man against woman,
    Her passions reduced to
    a stalemate,
    The wild dreams of bursting
    puberty, the mirthful tremors
    of a blooming flower,
    Made to wilt beneath a sun
    of predictability and
    Retreating into himself in
    waves of withdrawal from
    the sands of her heart,
    He took to the lifeless water
    and floated without
    She is beached, all zeal
    departing her as she
    eulogizes the promise of
    a future at that hour
    of her past.