Telos and Technic

Here rests a man who was an eater of feathers,

Whose grass was blue, and whose skies were pasture green.

We gave him a bunch of flowers, which he tried set alight,

And a bowl of fruit, which he rolled across the floor.

Thanks to him, we can now say, with some certainty,

That God neither wrote the dictionary, nor wasted his time

In some sorting house where each thing finds a function.

Seriously, this man filled his pockets with broken glass.

So how did such a man survive? You are quite entitled to ask.

Well, we placed him in a cage of love, and threw away his name.

We channeled him a flow of mediocre cinema classics,

And deprived him of his access to other people’s beds.

Were these the ways of our Saxon cousins, our Ming dynasty kin,

Our Aztec sisters, our brothers in ranks of Shaka?

Hold on to your money, you punters on the fate of Earth -

Here rests a man who laughed whenever it rained!