There must be a demon in the alphabet

Seneca advises: rehearse death.
Perennialism renders naught:
in a throe an addict ever
cultured in the South
lends himself a heed:
we read, “such forth and so
is the product of a century,”
as if a captured piece
is a manufactured whole:
wreaks a theory’s onslaught—
how unkempt the word—
the belly of the West
fills with alcohol and ego—
I, too, am history
and a visitor of anomie—
we sow, “useless art,
useless people: a goal—”
and reap misery below:
there are no great men
where the great men go—


~ by Jeremy on June 21, 2013.

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