Morning masquerade visions of evening’s silly season, pantomime-parading clichés. Ether, phantasm elements, first-dimension, aims summed up in a paragraph, video in Braille, conjured from a wooden box. The connotative skill of a football pundit (sticking pasta on paper in an arrangement made flesh out of the most pious dream of an extinguished wick that burned in earnest eagerly, briefly and brightly before it’s appliance at paschal). O Lord! How repenteth I my exhumed religion? Whose (metaphorical) alter venerates He who cannot grasp the figurative. Ill-begotten Son of my birthing that clouded my vision to change it in the eyes of others. Overrun but never subjugated I. Now when you enter my humble house you may bear your emblems but leave your cults at the door.
© John Lowndes, December 2014