Watching a Postmodern Friday Morning

Red, blue, green
rushing onwards within the stream.
Creamy yellow, faded pink, milky beige
pass by, towards foreboding Mac.
Traffic lights
glint, invade, soothe.
They thought of highways after they decided Time.
Remember the phallus? I forgot about it too.
Guess what? Gender is a construct.
And here is sexual difference, emerging from the ashes of the phoenix,
architecture wild, thoughts embedded within atoms.
I found an outside. I stole into it.
Iron bars, cages, spells woven
STOP
Telephone poles are nice trees, dominate, power is sexy.
Woman lead through miniskirts, empower yourself some more,
here comes my bed.
Lavender cream upon my eyes, stinging,
Found you Pollock.
No one saw Van Gogh.
Kitsch, nouveaux riche, status seeking,
where did you go art?
I’m suffocated beneath roles. All abstraction dies.
Only after we’re left stranded in the air. I can’t blame anyone.
What forced us to cognize? Beauty.
Propel, thrust to the future. Change.
Endless staircases, one after another, reach the top,
here is another, the past falls away.
Traffic light clicks

clicks
clicks.