Blocked: Death of a Classicist (Cinders Begin Again)

Over cast and over reaching

Overhead yet over there

Overheard by the Overmen

Perfect specimen of their kind

A thought: hands as shovels

A moment: fire flailing away the unneeded

    Strum und dang filed away as an achievement

          Let’s round up spinning plates

                 As if classicism never caught on

                      It is I who is caked in placenta

Chip away and see what can be found

Flakes of the after- fall form into eternal fields

                      It is I now (not the unchallenged)

              Who needs to rake and pray that we will never be damned

Now bag up them darn bones and use them as


‘Cause I’m arguing that flesh is a suit

                                                     And clay

                              Maketh the man

                                That I am

                              And the boy

                                That I was

Inconsistency is concrete in its fluidity that it can flex

       So what I create needs to be simple

Not a complexity but a mapping of where I’m from

     And where I’ll be this time

       – Come hell or high-water-

                            Next year


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