It is black and blinks in the darkness and shouts:
“fachebook, iTomb, homeosexual”1
Why have the pwoermds had such effect on the cyber-wandering depressed soul?
Memories of this long gone past kept singing
in the feverish lines from this forwarded future
in the frivolous fringes of fraternal fright
in the left corner of felted briefs
in the frangipani fallen at the feet of father Francis.
The souvenirs and retro-projections of Albion and Maore – two islands dwelling in grounded all respect for the self, attacked the forgotten white skin and jeopardized the viral battle field –
in dreams and thoughts – false the brain full like a flask of forlorn fantasies.