2.5 – On the impossibility of innovation

We are all to blame
For these blanket statements
And the merciless flogging
Of reanimated equestrians

Wherefore art art art?
“Low blow,” the creature moans
Since the undead can neither whinney nor brey
And again, my cruel baton is raised

An unprotected lightbulb hangs
From a thin wire like a weakly
Invoked trope and so forth
Ad merciless infinitum

Beneath the choking radiations
Enslaved indifferently by the flick of a switch
The beast’s still-flowing mane hangs
Patient, but understandably grows tired

Speaking of, Patience is wearing thin fabric
Draped elegantly around her impossibly
Ready-to-go figure, “I'm bored”
She whines, but we never could

Hear her over the wrongly praised
There is no more room on the table
In our torturous dungeon, where that stale horse lies
Supine, coughing, surely dead in some respect

No room for the eternal or allegorical
And certainly no room for both

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