Postmodern Heroes with Butterfingers.

Lucien James

14784359073_ae989b33a9_zby Ian G Graham…

Do the horns of time,

sound for us –

in sallow metered rhyme?

Or frown upon our bended frame –

a marked receding lame?

Or locate meaning in a self-imposed vacuum –

truth weighed on melting castles –

where petty claimants swim and strangle reality in existential soup.     


I cry tears that matter…

An illusion in a liquid dream,

Plato’s cat builds castles in her sandpit,

matchsticks rain down to strike a revolution,

Default Freedom…                                                

Failing progressiveness of everything…


Is cosmology circus tricks and acts?

A cold stirring of skeletal uprisings in protest about death?

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