The not really ephemerality

Or: Gentlemen in a gathering

Pseudointellectual. Pseudocriticism. Pseudobeing.
A sort of aimless drifter, ever eyeballing
that nucleus accumbens overwrought and undone.
Swords readied, tucked between the thighs of
harried homeless men, critics of death,
who runs underfoot from the time of illiteracy
to noon, which is in two hours’ time.
How unreality catches up to feeble brains that learned
their numbers, feebler death toes the line.

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~ by Jeremy on June 6, 2012.

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