A shimmering of microbes

I see that we're beyond

the plughole tearing down

into pits of dead heroes.

Newspapers eight-thick

secure the walls. Dot one

is made, dot two a frantic

beaming of rectangle

rotoscoped in wax sealed.

I've hidden hard nails

in your sock drawer

then I'll clamber out

of the underground, planting

my boot on a manifesto;

but first you must ask yourself

how does this make you feel?

 

We were gods once,

or maybe fairer to say

you were, you were

and YOU were; for me

I watched on, plotting in

black and white from

a vacuum flask, watching

the patterns my breath made

on moving glass.

Now I've layers I can do without;

heat-shields, bitter yokes

within the principal jests.

And I foresaw vast kingdoms

for each of you, not

low ebbs, footnotes in

textbooks for zeroed futures.

 

Image Credit: Non-Objective Composition (Suprematism) by Olga Rozanova