a poem for the dysmorphic

By seannelson

Wed, 28 Aug 2013

Though we master advanced forms,

late and soon

we lose our primal ones...

surrendering glacially

to the angels of decay.

We see

our once poignant features

caricatured in anarchy's clay,

our psyches

over-dosed with pathos,

numbed by vast modernity,

depraved by ego,

darkened then lit

by mania's glow...

reduced to Silver Sufferers

hanging tense

between two spheres,

clinging like communists

to the gray state we know...

hunch-backed and flat-footed,

faces like Halloween-eve masks,

with every sense, entry, and exit

mechanized...

pissing in catheters...

hiding in brief narcotic cures,

and yet we pick up

the brief-case,

unpack the easel,

pen the profligate drivel...

modern man yields

only to mortality's gavel