On the chairman’s hundred flowers

The foibles of the clerisy
lie down in body counts:
they theorize admirably
and provoke every heresy
that taunts a local god:
what new ideas do we invoke
to save ourselves the trouble:
to read and hardly work
or write and never see:
the despot invents clerisy
when his labyrinths lie spoiled:
as threads of words allay
the children in the soil:
hark! the theory is old
as the men who spin it up:
the miseries of literacy
revert from youth the species:
when cooling brains dismount
they misbelieve their origin:
the language of humanity
is spoken from the brow:
one believes nigh anything
if his work is worthless now.

~ by Jeremy on June 6, 2013.

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