A fellow Open University student wrote in Dinosaur poets TM:
what is/are Poets
Can they die and emerge again
which made me think of some of the First World War poets and haiku in response.
Brooke. Grenfell. Munro.
Owen. Rosenberg. Sorley.
Thomas. Wilson. Wyn.
The Great War is history, and the poets above did not survive it. But fragments of their work live on, typically preserved in stone, like the fossils of creatures who lived at a time before ours when great beasts roared across the earth, ripping gentler souls limb from limb in the quest for blood to spill and flesh to consume.
Which got me thinking about the metaphor of Hollywood B-movie dinosaurs as great monsters, roaring and killing like the great guns of the artillery blasting away at the soldiers in the trenches.
Children love to see reconstructed dinosaurs and stomp about roaring and pretending to be a T-Rex, chomping great chunks out of authority figures like parents and teachers and elder siblings. Being so big and powerful that they can do as they like, ruling the earth.
Is this the childish, base desire that prompts people to like to watch war being made on the news? Gore-porn as entertainment? How advertisers are clamouring to get their products promoted alongside clips of people being beheaded, blown up, burning alive, shot and gently rotting in the sun? The advertisers and media know what we like.
Civilisation is a transparently thin veneer.