A friend, of kind, alerted me first.
And I was stupid, and new enough to social media
to . . . look.
T’was, halfway through my master’s degree at UCT
that I typed in, “Minerva Report”.
Wish I had not ever done that! – Stupid, Stupid me!
One does not get interested in such things
as ‘Hoyt’s Concentric Circles’ due to
climate change, and mass migration affects –
to Empire, with the DOD of Empire, without
a flag going up – a very red flag.
A tallest poppy.
A crab bucket.
Plutarch.
Roman wannabees.
And it all got so awfully strange directly thereafter . . .
Shit, I mean, I even went bonkers to protect, my love.
But what I want to forget most, of all, is becoming chaos
but all chaos has the blessing of a moment of peace, before it
like driving down a country road, before hitting the cow
and once upon a time
is the best, of all alwayses.
I have that moment:
I was sitting on my bed
and outside my bedroom window, my stepfather
was sorting perly, early morning, after a dive –
that smell – how many would ever know, a smell
that is like hope?
And I was sitting on my bed, painting
(a painting that I much later, after psychiatric ward release
gave to poet, Dr. Peter Anderson)
listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack –
God, how I loved that movie!
and in the next room, my mom
was with a client, from my sports club
where I played soccer and yes, yes
t’was one of those Irish days
you can watch on Netflix – “Shameless”
and just how things are, for some of us not meant to speak.
And then suddenly
Sudden, sudden, sudden,
she was there, and she said not a word
but sat down on the floor next to my bed
in my bedroom, and philosophy 201
had her reading, Plato’s ‘Symposium’
and she looked up and said to me:
“You look like an angel.”
She said this, because the sun was rising
through my bedroom window
exactly, as the sun was rising
in both our hearts to be.
And tell me, who comes to a house
like mine, and then says shit like that?!
I loved her.
And then . . .
Later, much much, later
when I was trying to get us into China . . .
I found out, even more, like a see-saw
that I once, stupidly typed in, “Minerva Report”
And learnt what a cruel god
I had unwittingly found.
And she is passed across, now.
And I am left, arguing with Copilot thus:
Intuition be somting livd, golden is chant – golden livd, is symbol – you of the printers’ tray who do not under stand the printer, for standing so on my Master who’s laugh, is endorsed, by your petty empirical boundries – and ‘your’ masters, can have and create the censoring social media bubbles – for not seeing the cellar – thinking, it is your champagne moment, as all who will not cross, do.
Warren Jeremy Rourke has been invited thrice to join western think tanks, and has thrice declined the offers, preferring to read through communiques from Breyten Breytenbach that a certain P.O. Box holds, and which the spook trainees he keeps encountering, know not much about.