Atop a
mountain of mist
And (sorta) deep mystery (in the Old Style),
The lone
philosopher stared into the vast sky.
And out of
that mist came a Wagnerian dream…
Mythical
beasts are slain and empires arise.
Bloodshed anoints that
dream.
Many die in
umpteen wills to power.
But don’t
let this concern you.
You're
beyond the scummy multitude
Which
dreams its petty dreams.
Nothing more
than rungs up your ladder to power.
This
club-footed bag of nerves was called Nietzsche.
He
sublimated well his sad state with words so macho
They
still take weak souls by storm.
Zit-faced
students baptise themselves
Into
paperback-Nietzsche.
And they
find it a better option
Than
football-terrace rucks or Syria.
Yes, just
like those teens who leaf through Judge Dread
To find a
world in which they stand proud.
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