Inspired by the writings of aesthetic philosophers like Baudrillard, Deleuze, Bataille, and Benjamin, I have decided to take a piece of popular culture–the popular song “The Lion in the Jungle”–and heuristically draw from it the poetic splendor which is absent from our modern world.

We have emerged from the ruins, strangers in this world; there are no masterpieces. There are no metanarratives. There is no canon. There is no genius. There is no truth.

In the roadhouse,

The dirty roadhouse,

The killer bides his time,

In the desert,

The kitschy desert,

DalÍ looks out of place.

On the sundial,

The ancient sundial,

A warning is descried,

In the pig-pen,

The sacred pig-pen,

The golden calf was lost.

In the parlor,

The wedding parlor,

The sailors jest and jibe,

By the brothel,

The pleasant brothel,

A crowd begins to form.

In the piecrust,

The crispy piecrust,

A flaky doughy treat,

Near the turnstile,

The grimy turnstile,

The lovers met their end.

Through our science,

Our pagan science,

The present lives renewed,

In the Bauhaus,

The early Bauhaus,

Ceci n’est pas un chaise.

In the lion,

The mighty lion,

The sleeping jungle roars,

Through the novels,

The lengthy novels,

Bourgeois clichés are mocked.

In the ocean,

The endless ocean,

The Prince of Darkness weeps,

Between the dockhands,

The lusty dockhands,

The package bumps and thuds.

In the brambles,

the thorny brambles,

A fascist breathes his last,

From the pilot,

The addled pilot,

A message of remorse.