Revolving Poem by John Weber

I vomit sheets of bile
from a pit of transgression
lazy in splendor
behind glassy pages
laminated by decadence
while craving any space
away from the hero-machine
and the fashion of scant
that lofts opinion
into the stratosphere
to lope with the garbage
circling the globe.

Spent cycles of promotion
line the pen I sequester myself
within until every whim dangles
disposable in function,
another reminder of the
transparency of flesh
strutting so confident
the eye strains to find
marvels of creation divine
tangled in the dynamic
code of existence.

Only in the negative
wisp of velveteen darkness
does a whisper of pattern
beyond word or image
reveal more than superficial
slogans calling the pure
towards the galleon assembled
without the vantage of dream
to bombard all genius towards
self-desecrated loathing
for the senselessness
of this naked plight.

Is it any wonder
I can't relate to you
when buried behind
such garbage?