freedom is

an absurd grandiloquence

scribbled by a poet of Pretense (me).

freedom and all its very tall comrades

slide glistening off the tongue

with grotesque and sophistical


and what an irony

that we (poets of Pretense)

will quibble with vigour

over the fluidities of language

and how to define ‘sardonic’

while that grandiosity

with a false face,

its only face,

inscribed by arrogant quivering pupils

mocks us,


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Calling all gods everywhere — make yourselves useful; cease your petty quibbling and show yourselves. It has appeared that unless you alone (I speak to each little god, each little you) are master & c

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