I.
Adhering to the blind dictum of tradition mandates that one must forgo the pleated swathes of common sense and intelligence. Declaring an allegiance to something simply because its what has always come before it, because it has always been done, adamantly forges the consent for free-thought. Reasons are forgotten; intentionally even, by the barbed and rusty throes of the subconscious. And they raise their voices in an anthemized unison. And they jab their pointy fists in perpetual salutation. Squawks and a squeamish screech for nothing.
II.
Her lunar stage will be phased out. Crescent lips, full hips. Those new bright eyes. And her gibbous turn around that crackedconcretecorner seals the deal. Her clout wanes in the inevitabilities of that some kind of dawn where the creatures release their clutches from the sinewy powerlines before a backdrop of waxy blackness.
III.
Smoke has penetrated the bellows. An unrelenting infiltration, a failing in filtration. Tailfeathers splay: a Japanese folding fan unhinged to do battle with gnatty humidity. Or, perhaps, for mere aesthetic acknowledgment: uselessly unfurled for the delicately imagined koi or the foreboding blackbird who, even in such accordioned composition, is rendered as terrifying as ungrounded loyalty or vanishing Earthly satellites.
No comments:
Post a Comment