I will not wear a Poppy [poem]

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I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”

Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)

Even children spend all day in prison places, overseen
from morn till night; their minds collectively conditioned
2 conform 2 mediocrity, uniformity, political correctness
automatic-al-ly, socially prepared to join the fray of
drudgeful work & buy things which they can’t afford
& then be told by pervert priests to pray unto the Lord,
donating to their “worthy cause”, to save themselves
from hell (which, in lesser form, already ravages the earth)
but serfs are made of humans from their time of birth
until the grave, as parents’ little dolls (extension slaves),
teachers’ puppets, government muppets, employers’ pawns,
before all of whom they bow and scrape and fawn unless
a light goes on and something deep within them dawns.

The childish human’s like a lump of dough that’s moulded
by dark forces into where they want those lives to go.
Along the long conveyor belt of strict conformity to death
disguised as “life”, those little sausages (for that is what
they will become) are processed then to live a life of debt.
Their peer groups pressure them to smoke their cigarettes,
dope themselves to death, drink themselves to stuporville,
and other legal forms of slavery (all government approved)
then, if they go to war, they don’t investigate (that’s if they
knew at all) just how the premise for the prosecution of
that war was masterminded secretly & long before a drop
of human blood was spilled & never question why they kill
to benefit their masters (arms producers, wheeler-dealers,
sharp industrialists, their pawnful politicians and the lords
who sip their sherry with the generals at the garden parties
on the lawn, while squaddies in their ignorance are told
they fight for freedom (though that platitude is rather worn).
And when they die, the cliché then is said that those poor
soldiers “gave their lives so others profit from their sacrifice”,
implying that we all gain freedom when they’re blown to
smithereens upon the chessboard theatre of some crazy war
which had been engineered in the secret corridors of power.
Please, let me hear such clichés from your lying lips no more!
The only ones who “profit” from those soldiers’ sacrifices are
the very types who plan and fund those warring enterprises.

The warping and perversion of the young begins
at birth with precision-bombing of our children’s
minds with propaganda wars designed to blind
with orthodoxy, dumb conformity and clonelike
acceptance of a military-industrial complex which
possesses people, owning them with cultlike
cleverness. I tell you: they will never let you go.
Their mind-control will follow you through life.
Then youths are later partnered with some spouse
who also is enslaved and who they hardly ever see
[for slavedom, so it seems, will always take priority,
which kills the overlight of love, fraternity, sorority],
with whom they make some babies to be fodder
for the nanny-state which mollycoddles them
like helpless infants from the cradle to their proxy
lived-out, self-mutated destiny where freedom dies
& angels (if they could or ever wanted to) would cry.
[as, indeed, do I]

For what freedoms did those fooled, deluded men
lay down their lives on battlefields in bloody mud?
The “freedom” to be captives of Fluoxetine, Paroxetine
or Sertraline? The “freedom” [sic] to always own the
latest car or bike or fashion clothes or wash machine?
The “freedom” to become enthralled and mesmerised
at such a tender, easily manipulated adolescent age
by empty stars of pop and film? Celebrity’s a killing
field of mind [control] to steal your heart away with
glamour as the magnetizer leading souls astray.
The “freedom” to announce yourself ‘disinterested in
negativity’ so you can be a safe-space-slave ensconced
upon the featherbed of your volunteered captivity?
The “freedom” not to wear a poppy when presenting
news or programmes on TV? Good luck with that!
The torch and pitchfork trolling mob on social media
will hound you with their hateful words compelling you
to wear your paper poppy with what they call “pride”
or your career will be finished (better save your hide!)
Freedom is a quality the poppy folks have yet to try!
The freedom to allow the TV’s amorality to twist
your frozen minds in every way (except sagacity)?
For there that TV sits within your sacred space,
full of characters with which your home should
not in any way be graced. Beelzebub it truly is,
his tail up on your chimney stack, his eye within
your living room; your life it tracks, enslaving you,
false-flagging you, depraving you & disinforming you,
preparing you for preconfigured hyper-ersatz doom.

How scathingly we view this misused word and
have no concept of what FREEDOM means and live
instead in secondhand redundant dreams, realities
created by the men and women wielding power
through politics or fake news hour, their many spies,
twin-towering lies, while Truth flies to a place more
fitted to its mission, such as nebulae & solar systems
far across the heavens where my lovelight dwells
(which now with you I share). {Please take me there}

“They died so you can now enjoy the freedoms
which you have!” That’s what they say and also
how they say it too. This is their little ploy to fill you
with a wholly manufactured guilt and shame you all,
to close you down in your dissent, your ideals bent
by them so much that you become a shadowland
of what you true could be if you were truly free.
They do it so your mind can be remade, according to
their dark, deficient, vicious, unde(r)licious serenade.

There is no freedom in this world, for all is fake
and everything’s “a number” [US slang for fraud]
and almost everyone is on the take and only really
int’rested in what they make (no matter how much
they may dress it up in fancy words) while frozen
hearts are rarely thawed and gaudiness and kitsch
(those children born in blood and shit and shot with
fashion’s louche pretentious lodestones thru ‘n thru)
will vie with plagiarism on this hellish earthly barbecue.

But deep within the nothingness of everything
[tickling the bosons, leptons, quarks and any other
so-far-yet-to-be-discovered bits of stuffofallness],
if you can shut your self (and everybody else) up
long enough to hear the sound of all creation’s
continuity, you’ll see that poppies made of paper are
the military’s version of the ancient art of origami —
a flower reduced to empty propaganda for the army.
Soon, into that dreadsome silent space will flow a
mighty rushing wind, such as has never been before
nor ever will again. Its magnitude will make all war
seem nothingful as, like an angel’s sudden robe of death
upon this earth, it will bring vast destruction (also known
within the trade of prophets as a reconstruction when
we see and understand that chaos is a muchly needed
deft precursor for the arc of destiny unfolding boldly)
to this dirty mess we made — this Hades which awaits
refurbishment — on which with arrogance so much
mere folly we have spent with all our hubris and with all
our pomp & circumstance, immense presumptuousness
and… above all else… our voluntary wilful ignorance.

So when you put that bloody poppy on your clothes,
remember that it is a symbol of a cancer in this world
which grows in those who’ve sold their souls to war.
That’s what it’s for: to dumb you down, to shut you up,
to make you acquiesce to go to war when power elites
decide they need some more to plunder in the world.
Their artfulness in engineering wars is second to none;
you are the pawns upon their chessboard game of fun;
& when your jingoistic flags (or rags) have been unfurled,
they reap their darksome harvest on the battlefields,
in blood, in fear and death (on which they and their dark
masters in the secret corresponding ether gnashly feed),
to satisfy their greed. So, unto their poppies — which with
pseudo-pomp solemnity they sentimentalise and glorify
with subtlety the heinous act of war — do not ever yield!

So, finally, I say: No freedoms ever have been won by war,
whatever PR propaganda they present before your eyes.
Limiting the awesome scope and breadth of freedom’s sense
in human being’s minds is where the true conspiracy lies.

May that be your meditation for today and everyday
and soon you will awaken full of revelation, open, wise.

© Alan Morrison, 2017
(Image by Francisco Sottolichio

One thought on “I will not wear a Poppy [poem]

    Sky said:
    Aug 11, 2022 at 6:14 am

    Before this moment, I had never heard of this English “tradition”. Its just like the enemy to use something beautiful to create a horrible reality that remains hidden. Things are definitely not as they seem nor are they as they are expressed, whether here or there, so called good or bad, just look into the eyes of any soldier on any continent, in any hideous battle anywhere. Those eyes are the same.


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