This thing called ‘culture’
Is like a scuttling rat,
Too fast and slippery to catch.
There used to be a time where
The rats would overwhelm the masses.
Then we’d catch a whiff
Of the bubonic stage.
A slowly sipping poison,
Through, muzzles, cages, mazes
And the Internet.
And I am trying very hard
To be coherent,
And unpretentious,
And caring.
Amidst the waves of ceaseless information.
Culture lives externally
From methods of display.
There must be something
Wrong with us,
Cultureless like the rats
Who play in trash.
Trash that makes
The prostitutes and scavengers,
Stand like gods.
Our values unbeknown to us
We slip into it like sleepwalkers.
It takes a whiff to wake us.
A little too late,
A little too much.
