The portrait with a fallow beauty,
hollow how the sky be so.
’Tis “Tim Robbins”, Security
Director for Adidas. Nepotistic
but not without reason. His baton
style has become doctrine amongst
security personnel of the 4 corners.
Inheritor of the earth.
Melodies of calibration play as
memories between blades of grass
and hopper, while the sea brings
over the nutrious scent of Heavy-
Air from the Burnt Beyond.
Someone’s nightmare, someone’s
fantasy, Fantasy-nightmare.
As the curve of consequence
swallowed bodies, Power receeded
like urethra b’hind foreskin,
restructuring by Means and Ego
like the adjusting homeostasis of
a fungal-floral Glade.
An immanence of vertical solidarity,
religious in form, a modern mime of
time gone by b’fore the markets
melted minds - humanimals recursed
forward with a psycadelic transform
-ation of Telos and inherence,
private-contract club law needn’t
do as much as expected.
Meagre men soon filled ranks
of neo-meaning. Birds bristled
on fences soaked in mealworms
escaped from the pauper projects.
The transport-free agricultural
initiatives.
His baton was embroided in gold
family name. Rumours grew of a
scuffle between Robbins and a
vassal.
He took offence, ‘n then
hence:
”*thwacks you mercilessly in the
guts and nuts until you die*”
And he did.