Tick tock went the clock,
echoing
through monastery halls,
synchronizing the actions of men,
building up modernity’s walls.

Creatively destructive,
eternal
yet fleeting,
modernity was paradoxical,
according to the Harvey reading.

Art had expanded,
abstraction arises,
and Sigmund loves his mom,
more than anyone realizes.

Our friends the id,
the ego and its super,
tell us who we are,
Freud has the world in a stupor.

A catch-22 for dear Pablo,
who will sleep with a ****,
but is terrified of syphilis,
as is seen in his art.

There was power and truth,
and Foucault says we’re repressive,
but suddenly things change,
Postmodernity becomes quite impressive.

PoMo cares not for beauty,
or what pleases the public eye.
It’s style for style’s sake,
in the buildings stretching toward the sky.

Uma dances with John,
a young boy finds a severed ear,
Joaquin loves his OS,
PoMo film is, well,
Queer.

Yuppies love pastiche,
their lofts were once a workplace,
they’ve coated them with chrome,
they’ve gentrified the space.

Unlimited breadsticks
have soiled the very Italian name,
Baudrillard says it’s simulacrum,
there is no truth, it’s all the same.

We traipse through this
postmodern world,
not knowing postmodernity
is where we are.
We wear workboots to fashion shows,
we worship that reality star.

We think we’re special snowflakes,
and skinny jeans make us cool,
and media exposure’s made us cynics,
quite impossible to fool.

What we don’t realize is that
we are not our own,
we are pseudo individuals,
through PoMo we have grown.