Dave Cullern

Modern Shelves

Base lives
Based on lies
Disguise
Tiny moves
Amongst the forests
Of old gods

The words of
Dead generations
Carved
Into the wood
Like sigils
Flashed behind
The lids of our eyes

The force of legs
Forced to walk
Into fires
Made of printed words,
Alight behind stop signs
And directed turns
Without touch
Without loss
Without flames

Witch trials
Tried on lies
Try to hide
The hidden hooves of Pan
In amongst fat tomes
Of underwhelming prose
Underneath cages of thick clothes
And the grey,
The thick, constricting grey,
Sitting atop of the
Sucking
Fucking
Laughing
Violent
Truth.

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