Antonin Artuad Drinks And Goes Home


Life perambulates.
Where are the miracles?
Just a tedium of todays,
a factory of forgottens.
Cruel boats brutally thrash
sadly innocent docks
but never cast off.
A tock ticking of clocks
set on an endless loop.
Peacocks strut vainly.
Gibbons shriek at night.
The zoo remains a zoo.
Stuck on today’s flypaper.
The well travel to Lourdes
seeking the wholly infected.
Stigmata transform to sweat.
The tocking clocks are mute.
Leering pigeons stand firm.
The stillness of eternal motion.
Standardized restitutions.
Aggregate of unfelt feelings.
Things are evaporating.
Transmuted, desireless.
The concept of zero refuted.
Stand before a sealed portal.
Wish the Sybil’s wish.
Not a miracle in sight.
Yet life perambulates.

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