a poem for today, 16 May 2012
[a word-sorted sonnet of twelve sentences and its image]
I like being chased more than chasing.
You're one of many with this sickness.
Every face I see is a memory.
We've delivered them from chaos into order.
There is no explosion except a book.
I did not object to the object.
You don't give a damn about me.
Slick as snot and I ain't lying.
I want to send you my zine.
The whole trial is out of order.
This will teach you to arouse loyalty.
It is as if writers as watchdogs are extinct, or in thrall to a sociopathic zeitgeist, convinced they are too clever to be duped.
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