new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
This terrific and ominous poem imitates its "message" superbly by its method (patented Vazambam), a line-by-line spillover that overflows as we follow the sense along, and ends us up in subterranean depths which future archeologists (if there is a future, if there are archeologists in it) may identify as our "now" -- this frighteningly endarkened moment in time, hid under so many sedimentary layers of untruth as to obscure even the thought of a possible "later".
Vassilis,place "iPhones" with "safe-deposit boxes" and you'll have written the perfect dystopian poem of the death of our "now".
Capital comments, Tom, for which I thank you; I only wish I had found room for Conrad's "iPhones" in the tombs but then again, nobody's perfect, right? Or is that the last supreme fiction?