from the 'bunnyland' series, a photo by Alena Beljakova © |
playing poem, mostly for endless melodies...
once we were
nude simian faces
now we're rude mob races
chanting 'gimme again'...
we are pressed
buttons overhead
we hear bells
particle suspension
tonal cellular breakdown
rituals of growth
rust and not
always adhered
to schedules...
this means whenever
we felt whatever
to be heaven
or sate palaces
with no repercussions
versus prison
bars guards and jars
of our specimens
we had decided
these slipknot systems
could hold us in...
modernity holds
royal DNA lines
behind thick glass
succession might mean
getting off blue rock
before little yellow star
starts its pop
goes the weasel bit...
fear can be mass candy
and clothing for almost
any regarded sanctimony...
why else is good will
clandestine sad cello
in theaters
at the ends
of things...
I know that I'm selfish,
can you hear me poem...
I'm drunk
on another Easter
I can get away with it
seeking sweets
in any basket
I can find
here, mostly now(s)...
how 'bout you, poem
what are
you drinking
and waiting
to get away for...?
EJR ©
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