We’re designed by definitions
and, by definition, ill designed.
We call ourselves a Society,
a sect of superiors,
(selfish, salivating and sexed up)
a body of brutish beings,
searching for beauties
in platitudes, pondering Paradise
and placing Plato as a pet name for puppies,
naval gazing into our own Nirvana
while we paint our pads
and position our acquisitions
as if arranging our own Arcadia.
We sleep in the Shangri-la,
the hotel, not the ideal
while dreaming of that remote Utopia
with heads hanging humble
on thousand dollar pillows.
We are soldiers in line up
(overly eager and trigger happy)
waiting for the invite to heaven
where the righteous can be redeemed
in the hope of rising again
(in the hope of being forgiven for being fucking fools)
as if this was all just a waiting game,
a sojourn in a waiting room called life,
a select room where society decides
who can stay and who we should slay.
Nirvana was just a band on the radio
and Paradise is still just a paved up lot to park in.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Plato the Puppy was seen in on the streets of Antwerp, Belgium.