Simulacra

The faces of Francis Bacon--combustive whorls possessed

by double takes.

Faces of simulacra--their focal point slid to double vision.

The freakish upgrade of postmodernity...there--written

on their faces.

Objects of perception swelling with such realsim till they're

deformed by it.

As information grew an Age for itself, so grew a means of

its assimilation.

The simulacra cannot be taken at face value, they're

pregnant, have already evolved.

Paranoid's boom and bane--binge on chimeras nigh.

Maniacal monologue coruscating with exigence, there's

something twiddling with unnerving settings...that what

we see is an afterthought.

That we've been consigned to suspended animation, an

astronaut reaching for a feather.

Where are we going when where it is we reach we aren't

certain we've reached?

Dissonance is a difficult field to unify.

Simulacra...brainy, bearing teeth to lie through...to stall

for a generalized truth that has become ominous.

Konstantinos Mark