Apr 16, 2014


Grey apples & flagstones
A mouth of concrete
poetry of the bazar
painted by the hand
of ambivalence;
the bite bruises
the fruit flesh of,  no doubt,
lead. An era steeping
in poison
following the piled
bodies of ideology;
they called themselves modern
we call ourselves contemporary
Next comes what?
A new Renaissance since
by all means we are all fucking 
The belly of labor, 
mustard sackcloths, 
the old world is a fireman's
 new frontier, the framework 
of eyes & accidents,
 the gears don't rust me, 
I wring silos from this mesh.

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