Paintings hang high on walls and in fancy frames
Music blows through the ear as hot wind whispers
Talk is called cheap at blind book signings
Poetry sits patient in parchment fold leaflets atop trashcans over flown
Culture is no longer a noun, another adjective scripting the actor to frown
So beg questions profound, what have we done?
As becoming becomes a stripped scrap of bone

Calamity forever, the individual snared by ancestral surrender
All the while spectacular wonders persist in mocking that which boldly engenders
The passage of their faceless makers, leaving only us fakers
To gawk, jaws agape, slipping towards our attentive fates whatever the base Seemingly so resistant an occupation worthy of the sacrifice, to trade ****** space