Ode to Artaud
Has the world become so incestually complex
that song no longer rhymes
that laughter is a sullen gesture to appease another
that being unique we're isolated
like one cube from another?
Is the heart frozen in a tube
to be shaken by a hand we do not see
forsaken to a destiny of prescription drugs
administered to a body
prescribed by lack of destiny
to endure a little longer
as if the truth be found in time...
Or is there something to say for patterns
that obviate from the past that say:
'listen to me or you will not last.'