Optimum Oblivion

Breathless is the voice,
not the
or choice.

Alive is the boy, not
his ideology or

Maladroit are
his feats (pots calling
kettles black), not the
failures, swearing like

blaming faulty
life hacks.

Stacked are the odds,
leaning tower of
ethos while men
in paper
gloat over record numbers of
windows used to attract those who
seek their fortune,
but when
foundations are
you can’t
play God with skylines.

Hallowed is the hierarchy but
it’s never divine as it should be,
architectural epilepsy as we all
race to the

I’ve been writing mostly
nonsense until now,
but in my defence,
I was overstimulated by
optimum oblivion,

a smorgasbord of background noise.

Alert is the status,
red is the hue,
air traffic atrophy,

my rhapsody to you.


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