I was pre-meridian once
all nichenamed, para-pointed,
symbolic-ledgered & counterfitted
but I did not consent to this
aerial view of history
and nowadays the national skeleton
folds itself neatly like an origami god
hurling itself thru a mythical rain into the great ache
like a play thing for the patron saint of static.
It’s a shame the world doubles over
and vomits more & more atmospheric pressure
but I like how a misstep becomes a way forward
and how, in lieu of weightlessness, we patented
void-stepping as the latest craze
despite traducianism’s drone surveillance
plotting echoes for us to inhabit
long before we’ve ridden out on the frontier
of whatever useless situation
son dyslexic mechanised shadows
in an attempt to prove that the void is
in fact, erogenous… listen to lost, it’s demand
is simply to settle for all-out nothing.
Imagine Icarus laying out his wings
on the nightstand like underwear as
the human rainbow goes boom in the mirror
of the great nevertheless.
all myth-hitched and opposed to thumbs.