There is nothing
new in this world
Matter, prefabricated
nor destroyed
fumes in factories
of futilitarians
consummate infinite
I eat the soggy world
on my bone-plate
The tines of my chosen fork
strike a musical forte
The death dirge of war machine
cog-teeth
scrapes the upper crust
from the metal
In the real world
next to the current events
My son covers his eyes,
counts backwards from ten…
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