Aug 252011

The printed repeats
of post-modern modern living;
pattern copyrighted by the wry eye,
the deadbeat designer luft-lifted

to religious legionnaire.
A color co-ordinated rock chorus
sings the setting pattern
that labyrinths us to death.

The wavy paisleys
that doily-work the lifestyle-stylist's 
unbuttoned blouse
into incestuous palimpsest

make my head ache.
The divine grind of the final line
of the requiem's aghast ovation
gladdens the lapse into silence.

Will maggots fatten
on my quill of coffin?
Who else will eat
my delectable inks?

The handwritten record of a thing
eeks out each etch
until letters spider the eyes
an unprintable black.

Facsimile graffiti hang in the British Museum,
the scrawl of royal prisoners
gallowsed or gutted
--one scratch of time memorialized

before they were mud.

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