huge wads of an alternate reality.
What am I talking about?
I am talking about them,
self-aggrandized resumes.
Parallel universes;
narratives that have taken no place
but inside the anechoic chamber
of perceived failure.
By means of repetition
they seem to have acquired
the strength of prestressed bricks.
Oh, and their ubiquity too.
As Insincere as
the crow's gritty death-chant,
hovering around,
keeping an eye on a rat race victim.
Fallen.
Or just weak.
Approaching.
Fragments, pieces.
An order to be found at any cost.
And don't get me started
about modern architecture.
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