E-stim
helmets
bear the grim news that we win
every
single time we play
the
grim reaper’s anthem unto the day
four
horses meet up and draw-and-quarter
the
dead-eyed dog of a reporter
barking
into the assimilated mortar;
shells
are shot into the Mariana trench
while
we’re on social media judging from them benches.
and
we find that no matter the dopamine trigger
scatter
those picket fences in the diagonals
uprooted
and re-booted until the narrative
world
vanishes, tarnishing a record comparative
of
three oddly off-centre orthogonals
clashing
in the daylight wearing Sheraton™
paraphernalia.
A sprig of Queen Anne’s lace,
An
evening of saturnalia without disgrace
I’ll
be there when the wind blows and the earth quakes
Before
all the other times that my senses shake
With
ripples like a pebble, thrown in a pond
Whatever
those feelings bode, they come from beyond
The
bounds of your skin, as soon as light creeps in
We
become evacuated of all yonder qualms
Under
homilies with unexpected invective; receipts dim –
The
sublime art of ink fading, collecting alms
Afterwards
and being grateful for the jeremiad,
Talking
to the people in the crowd, jeering mad
With
the Athabasca lustre,
An
icy morning to beat around the bush with bluster
Burghers
by the boat-load, some of whom will usher
In
a new age of overloaded senses with crop duster
Chem
trails, crop circles outside the temple
The
paranoia is familiar, an all-seeing eye in the sky,
Isn’t
that what a satellite is like? Or is it all mental?
When
was the last time a child asked you why
The
sea in pencil sounds like an es, and we use utensils?
