Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The Time Machine

A.D. 2010

There is not much to say about hell anymore.

It grows like honeysuckle.

It chokes into the smooth myrrh of indifference

with sweet cloying smell.

Does it tickle?

A.D. 2025


"Just how many nuclear wars did they have?"

Embodied. "They?"

A.D. 2040

Under the plum blossoms

strange rose gloves of the same hand


[copyright EAC 2010]

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