Modern Poetry

Is modern angst. The small things floating in your eyes. Ghosts of your position in the word broth. How you’ve tweaked reality to suit yourself.

With modern tv, we can watch five thousand channels of modern interest. Scan across the intents of countless minority groups. Consume each footstep placed on an over-indulgent history.

There has been a collapse of the position we gave to truth. Truth has become too occasional; as though truth is nothing more than a comment, a gesture, a conceit.

A take, a take. Let’s redo it, construct it differently to express what we want. Let it all fall apart into the broth of words we exude. Armour. Mantle. Sword.

When I asked you about it, you said that it didn’t matter. I called in the bulldozers, the cranes, the structural managers, the dictionary and the thesaurus.

You countered that you loved me. Then you built a weather system which deconstructed everything we ever shared.

You had a word for every drop in temperature; every deviation from forty years of Mr. & Mrs. Norm.