Recourse to commemoration
Reverting to ethicalities of construction
“I” decadent, “I” verily a subjective alloy
“You” remembrance “you” plateau
“They” stage. Stage to move a microscope
Along X&Y – XX “she” a decoy fathom
Message a message a charity outgrowth
Revert to ethics
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
The therapist said— the point is—if a point is pointed enough
it can turn you blind. To avoid this, the early human invented the concept of
zone. Now, a zone is a zone till you throw a stone. It’s time you start
believing in ripples. It’s the only form of release in a stagnance. Eventually
you come back to yourself as there is nowhere else to go. It’s all ozone
outside the zone. Can’t breathe it, can’t eat it, can’t shit it; only political
ambitions thrive there.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
Let’s face it; a hole is not a hole without the option of
withdrawal. Losing you left a hole in me, in my pagemarks, in the once sordid concept
of plurality. I am whole now, akin to a sense of self justification growing out
of an eraser. Mark my words and then erase them.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
The only possible alibi I could have had was that I was
shitting together with you, thinking about this poem about conditional
plurality and continuously reverting to the discrepancies in definitions of “scar”
and “scarred”. I still say-- your honor-- I’ve had no hand in this new world
order.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
In retrospect, my ego should’ve stayed clear of me. Doesn’t
it sound true that only death defies death. An unsung promise defies a
resonating promise and we stand on our shards reminiscing about infrastructures
and dilemmas, holes in our once promising theories, sutures and withdrawals.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
Tricky, isn’t it, to escape and then return to the gaol
feeling bubbly. Progress is heady, it dispenses the same Martini that you had
in that charity program in 68. The world went global, it was octagonal before
that with a few chinks. Our crops are outgrowing their rains, our armours are
stripped for recycling dead meats. Good times to pick-up a swagger and beat the
shit out of the bugger and call the currency a hole.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
Resistance essentially is a queue of never ending
propositions and without resistance there never is capital. Capital of identity,
of incongruence, of resources waiting to be buried among the graveyard of
vernacular memories. We will identify ourselves alright, we will prostrate
before the mirror, strip-search for bottom-lines that were built to be
promiscuous in the first place. My fidelity is fractal, so is my concept of home.
Mark these and then remember your mighty righteous eraser.
Mantra of the summer
Bummer Bummer Bummer Bummer
Bummer
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