present with no past
etched in sketched permanence
were the reprehensible sensible
to the conscious mind
instead of luridly lurking
for a midnight subconscious find.
Burnt books stoke prurient interest
in flailing fires of flame’s incest
because if the last past
is no longer written,
then there’s no need
for the coals to cool as if never smitten.
Labels: poem