Daily Dissident

He’d run out of opinions.
He couldn’t explain anymore.
It wasn’t burnout.
No point to make sense.

It became increasingly
difficult to choose sides.

I feel like moses. Fuck
umpteen commandments.

As long as it lasts my love
for you to keep adore and hold.
She smiled sweetly.
“You’re adorably sentimental!”

He was taken in small doses.

No longer entitled.
15 minutes of fame.
The wait’s way too long.
In future the allotment.
The length of this line.

Contact ed-strong@gmx.com

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Doors of Perception

It’s not the material. You make it work.

I’ve been shredded.

He pondered the deconstructivist.

Have you comprehended him?

Fucking pompous garden-shed artist!

Fancy touring my favourite things?

The chances of direction. I’ll bring you glitz.

I presume we’re circling similar stars. []

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Guilty

The women in his childhood exclaimed at his cleverness.

Quoting his supposedly wise sayings to one another.

“Remember what you said last time I was here? Tell me again.”

They called him adorable, cute, delicious, a genius.

They predicted a great future for him. Perhaps a lawyer.

One or two of his aunts and cousins whispered the furthest.

Could he one day be the first Jewish president?

Does that incestuous adulation explain his attitude to women?

He became a major wheeler-dealer in the music industry.

Thirty years at the top until the rumours become reality.

Dozens of women came forward, accusing him of sexual abuse.

He would invite young singers or dancers to visit him.

Perhaps a hotel room or office to discuss their careers.

Then demanded massages or sex if they wanted future work. []

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Thrust

A bout of boredom. It doesn’t make sense.

You should stretch as far as I reach.

The critic waters his artists.

They wouldn’t bloom without me.

Was that how he got his thrust?

Got any integrity? A statement of faith.

I’m not sure I want to take part in this race.

Life’s a game of frames. What a paradox!

They need him to lead them astray.

Can’t you get lost on your own? []

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Make a Mark

Shall we display our follies? You’ve got one too.

I don’t ridicule your mark but the need to make one.

Given its strength in the minds of a few.

There’s someone in my path.

Who’s been holding up his left hand for many years.

With withered arm he begs for notice.

Does that make your desire less absurd?

All I’m looking for sex, play and epiphanies. []

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Take a Chance

Invest in Prophet Industries.
Home of creative possibilities.

We love desire, not the object of it.

This year’s pea-soup final.
Between liberal clichés.
As the straight narrows.

One was a celebrity. He died young.
It boosted his ratings.
The son-of-god rock’n’roller.

Romance needs a tragic death.
To emerge from the tomb.
I should be so lucky.

How would you describe it?
Pared-down prose.

Were the dogmatic days over?

Are you aurally experienced?

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