Thursday, November 19, 2020

Previously Published in Crisis Chronicles . . .

From the Alleys of Starvation

This dark does not make me
blind.  Just a pattern
ed window or wall.  Maybe
two.  Built [divided] and 
labeled "blue."  (How blasé.)
Prints of desire
are stacked to form a 3-
sided cell.  O' feigned pain.

Drama is the true art(ist)
in this demented scene.

That I am stuck (stained
planed and trained) in for 
this anesthetized frame
is a testimony to my elusivity.
Or was it my electricity?
Either way I am the conduit
against the luminosity.
Hit me. Flick me. Switch me.

Pressure is the key
that mark the stage.

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Previously Published in Epigraph . . .

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