poetry

blinK/d

from higher frequencies
borderless vibrations, away from
THE
third
observer, who never judges
whose bacK is turn’d
towards an artificial trompe
l’oeil, a taciturn
gate-keeper, who,
dress’d in rags, perches amid
the pair of foolishly
wandered
eyes, an unarmed watcher,
guardian of a connection lost
once it is bombarded with stupefacient
stimuli until it is brimming w/an uproar
of nothingness and defeat’d, replete,
familiarly relax’d, comfort’d in routine,
lethargic, sunK’n into a couch
conformed to the pathetic blobby vessel,
held up on the bony shoulders of devilish
brethren, who cackle w/the
live (?) studio audience
as the flame of your
i
is
blown
out.

blinK’d.

follow n liKe bj draKe

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