"Tyger, tyger, burning bright. In the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye. Could frame thy fearful symmetry," William Blake
"I have tiger blood," Charlie Sheen
Cue the autocue.
Such a kooky, "Charlie" thing to say, isn't it?
In his own mind, he's been wax lyrical for years about the silent predator stalking the jungles of his vasculature.
Pursuing him through his arteries.
Prowling through his veins.
A beast trapped in the infinite maze of his capillaries.
A predator that can't be killed with guns or big government or even big pharma.
The last taboo infection. The last vestige of the ancient belief that god punishes mankind for their mortal sins with plagues, pestilence and disease. A disease that disproportionately affects the most disenfranchised and vulnerable in our local and global communities. A disease spread by drugs and unprotected sex and ignorance and poverty.
A disease that will devour him whole, gnawing on his bones and entrails and skin. Poetically. Literally. Lyrically.
As we devour him from without, figuratively, like tygers.
With studio cameras and halogen lights and interviews and lawsuits and judgement and condemnation and religion and hate.
Mentally ill and fiendishly addicted to drugs and alcohol, one of the greatest creative minds of his generation has been trying to tell us he has this disease, this predator, this tyger for years.
And it was WE, the rational, the logical, the sane, the healthy who were sick.
After all, we were the ones ignoring him.
And fleecing his bones for entertainment and money and something to distract us from watching paint dry.
We are the tygers.
In the forests of the night
What kind of immortal hand or eye?
Could frame our inhumane symmetry?