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Kevin Sloan. The Messenger

Kevin Sloan. “The Messenger”.

If a dare to call this stuff poetry
it’s just because the box of concepts
and categories can handle anything
and nothing.
Putting a line after another in a spasmodic
catharsis of dark sentimentalism
is a mere conditioned reflex,
a colorful fetish detained in the showcase
of universal consumption,
a regurgitating toads and snakes
to conjure the spurious curse
of a time same as itself.
Washed away.
The same last for different shoes.
Choose the one that fits you.
Adjust it, feel it, get moving
and see that freedom illusion
spreading out beyond the horizon
merging into endless possibilities.
Or just read the references
at footnote:
hopeless kink,
nothing at all,
reason of unreason,
complain A or B.
And save yourself a precious time.