HoodieA Poem by SubteranneanSay you follow in stores of convenience down aisles marked Deleuze, tip-toeing around black bods laid rhizomatic and prim, as drawstrings pull and tighten around your imaginary until it spills into the street bilious, in a blaze of skittles and having plucked the low hung fruit, despite having, at last, uprooted the poplars of yore, you find blood underfoot. What then. On the contrary my love, theory is yet dead. © 2016 Subterannean |
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Added on March 7, 2016 Last Updated on March 14, 2016 Author
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