By David Swanson
The structure of a transitioning soul
still anchored to an earth-bound territory.
The guilt of an egocentric storyteller avoiding vertical behaviours
that solidify his health.
The damaged thief alone without community.
It’s transparent.
The intent to be honest reveals the style of one’s soul.
Slow moving construction.
Aluminum sidings grafted with Renaissance pillars and cemented paradigms.
Blueprints published on historic paper back novels.
Likeable T.V. characters, attractive with a soundtrack introduction scene,
an episodal conflict that takes 30 minutes to resolve.
Symmetrical bodies, perfect smiles and a revenue storyline
during prime time viewing hours.
Maybe the cast needs an audience to ignore
before bruises become tangible,
a trophy display of pleasantries prior to the trivial curtain call,
the victims defence attorney politely waiting to resolve
the estate and dissolve his assets.
I would agree sleeping in the fetal position
becomes more demonstrative and deplorable when your lover
can’t tell your posture is nationalistic,
a poverty alliance with an unskilled general who cannot
administer self-discipline, his formal jacket bare.
No purple hearts.
No high honour.
The exception is clever.
Armed cavalries of cocaine barrel bayonet dollar bills,
the morning spent with picture prostitutes
transforming dignity into dead eye video illumination.
Three hours.
Seven inches.
A world away.
False liberation and my post party animal animations
drain my body of its fluids and inhibit my soul’s economy.
Progress is archival.
It’s prioritized for demand, only referenced during duress.
The coercion.
Expecting the patterns extension, using an ex-lover’s will for attachment
to continue a cycle fixed in a time more familiar.