anthroapologie: the poem

walden freeman

flat-foot rulers sans crowns are laying bloodied in a field more gangrene than green and fenceless although both sides would be the same shade regardless of how technologically advanced our camera equipment was during filming. pitch your tents, pitch your ideas, it matters less each second. the tarpits and cesspools have swallowed alive the once-glamorous gothams and metropoli of the twentieth-century folklore we grew up reading as opposed to and in place of scripture. whoa, woe is all of us! bodytypes not unlike typewriters are becoming things of the past: presents. we'll send them to each other when we reach the humid heavens and notice that whatever deities made it past middle-management have left our dna stranded . . . .