Lost in the Fog
of this fog, these too many wares wearing us down to the bare bone of contention, withered & weary of nowhere to turn beyond our reel of revenance, caught in a knot of restive reckoning with the ambient murk in our misty midst, mixed in tensions like ribbons stripped of zip. Not to mention the width of notions of the myth of nations snugged in smothering mulch, ample as amulets on our sacrificial gams, naïve as lambs chopped & bothered, feathering our necks with creeping fingers of frost. While a lofty mob of merry misers meanders through our misery & the cannibal in chief bites the hand of need, feeding on graft glossed with tinsel grift, gaping at his own cupidity as a minority of majors grasp the raft of mammon floating like black gold on the violated waves.
Another Round
of psychopomp & circumstance as real as any faked revenant, resonant & plossible. A matter of conviction or convection of what we once held dear, buck naked & broken heartful as youth cut down in the prime of its innocents, squirreled & squared away by the spiritless spite of our fellow coal-rolled ignorati on this knee-bent joyride of anonymous animus trolling for sensitive morsels to conquer & consume. As if sessile, tough & tufted, an aisle late for an isle stunned to the battered cusp of annihilation, bringing us forth & back to the body & its tender seams, frayed seems leading to a new scene. Urgently emergent, lost in the starts, turbulence turning its west angle to its best angel until offered as excepted, proffered as excerpted, a miscellany of misprision precisely mis-apprised. Each precious wan of us a prize in the prison of our owned. No hate but what we make up & at ‘em ad finitum in this grate emeritus land of the fee.