For ages, the rich and their sycophants have written in praise of 'honest toil,' have praised the simple life, have professed a religion which teaches that the poor are much more likely to go to heaven than the rich, and in general have tried to make manual workers believe that there is some special nobility about altering the position of matter in space, just as men tried to make women believe that they derived some special nobility from their sexual enslavement.
—Bertrand Russell
singing like (cummings)
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart,singing like
an idiot,whispering like a drunken man
who(at a certain corner,suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
e. e. cummings, from "Five"
Labels: poetry
