You are made

absurd

standing against

a bird with a

mohawk.

Move on,

find your fate

a café

to concoct

a fantastic idea,

tell us

how ecstasy tastes

like the

leaves of fog.

Sit there,

devising routes

to flee from the indecency

of the incident.

Then begin

clapping

madly in the air,

with a frown

on your face,

as if trying

to squash the world’s

insignificance.

Leave quickly

before the army of fools

you hired

arrive with their pure

pulse of contempt.

Find the cathedral

and hold

a moment of silence

look,

even the pigeons

can preach

below the dust

and fury

of the yellow sky.

You can

at most

only touch a shade

of fiction;

let’s face it

you pick up

and open an umbrella

thinking it is Beauty

itself

but it is neither

raining

nor about to.

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