I am postmodern,
a season leashed by its
binary hold
A-possibility-soup sans mire-poix
where ideals are as sacred as
the phantom wings of amputated

My name was invented by a feather
dipped in confiscated ink
possessed by the man
as a Mondrian tie, while

Rothko lines of ineffable truth
confound both scholars and priests alike
and artists held me to their glue.

An eternity spent without spare time
has made me
blind to any natural cortège,
I march like rain, elude any shelter
and have finally arrived to announce the end
of all subsequent eras.

The opposition, trapped in distraction, refuses to offer
any counter argument,
and so I remain…unchanging in time.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s