… the modern.

By J. K. McDowell

March 2018

 

A banquet of close friends, strangers, enemies

And some pieces of me.  All feeding, yet still ever

Hungry for the quick passing of the months ahead.

 

There was the Twelfth Night of 1897.

I survived, others attending did not.

The story is unfinished, part one at an end.

 

Aware, unforgettably aware, moist at the

Surface of the corpse cold aluminum bottle

Of beach wood aged brew.  Tell me, where is the King?

 

How else do we sustain the ancient virtues?

The blood days are here.  Never heard of virtue or blood?

You know we have much work to do, the time is now.

 

James, I would not encourage such attitudes.

Poisons are potent potions of past remembrances.

Not every antidote is wrapped salvation.

 

The suppression of our natures continues.

We are the true monsters who abduct our false selves

From the deep dark nightmare slumbers of the modern.

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