Sunday, 11 July 2004

twofiftyfour

We could have hung them with our wasted hours.

An icon of a saga of a character of a story

He stands there convinced that he can see his kin in the distance.

For the lonesome ego must evade the muse

And the confident actor must hunt the lie.



We are ready to go.



And so what if I scream at mirrors?

Seeing how I have accomplished

The art of reaching out to people so effectively,

I decide that I can.

(Irony is the refuge of the educated man who is out of his depth.)



After the blow, a wreath languishes

Amongst the chained angles and cheated compliments.

This is pure attention - the refugee’s love.

This is best for intellectual permutations.



Life is a commentary.

People deny that they love

Or have ever loved

The mute attraction of order.



I, however, simply toss chalky glances

At starry-eyed verbs,

Hoping they will burst.

I talk to myself in the third person

Hoping they will burst.

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