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Poems

Rotting in a Bucket


Perhaps this nature is forced

upon ourselves.

Fantasy and reality collide.

A single idea indoctrinated by a certain privileged minority

cannot forever decide the fate, in a figurative sort of way, of our species.

There are (in secret) and will be a plethora of schisms in our general biological construct.

Unveiling to others the frail truth.

 

The naked boy is no longer green but faded black.

Why are statues of humans more beautiful than their creators?

All the cobblestones you’ve seen in this city

have been contemplated as weapons.

Paris no longer has the cramped streets fit for revolution.

No more gates, the city walls are only the limit of electronic dissonance used against us.

Hold us back, keep us in poverty.

Recurring thoughts have been warm. Survival is all that is left.

7 replies on “Rotting in a Bucket”

‘Why are statues of humans more beautiful than their creators?’
One beautiful distortion of reality. I like the way you talk satire.

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