The tiresome bobbing and weaving
obliterate the string of pearl days
basking in the unseasonable 50s . . .
What you thought you heard
is what you heard . . . at least
according to hearsay . . .
Emptying a bottle of invisible ink
to the Big Pharma of resolution
floored in the cereal aisle at the supermarket
is an AI monologue composed
not from images but from words . . .
Objections disallowed by dissonance, yes? . . .
How can masterworks survive
in this forensic undercurrent? . . .
A din drifts in from the back room
where pleas are bargained
before headlining virtual tabloids . . .
Your lines riskng enjambment
will doubtless make the six o'clock news . . .
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| Leila Forés |