Gosh, Poor Taste

Speakers in the trees semblance of wings in the sky

Toxins fumed into air from wings in the sky

Lust on air, wax on fruit, capital on books held by blanched tips

Wings spread fly my plate bone dry

Show too attitude of nought

Fidget for at restlessness’s door

Artificial snores from an art not yours

Man-made man-made might as well a can made

Arsed out by way of the promulgated self

assembled not by the self itself but by replication

Soon say the trumpets of the heavens “where are you?”

Who shall answer but the dead and gone?

akb