Soren James is a writer and visual artist who recreates himself on a daily basis from the materials at his disposal, continuing to do so in an upbeat manner until one day he will sumptuously throw his drained materials aside and resume stillness without asking why. More of his work can be seen here: http://sorenjames.moonfruit.com
Acres of murdered children fill
stores with low-cost plastic scraps,
placating Western mundane moans -
seeking purchase on their shopping gifts.
Markets filled with sealed lives
and chicken-item stereotypes, freezing
human sympathy. And check out
the canned protein – it's a metaphor for democracy.
Faith-herds – hopeful in misery –
dwell in their blank ecologies
befitting of worlds of tyranny.
These flocks writhe, wool
hitched, knotted and
matting, over their
eyes - drowning
while loyally they bow in deceit
to creeds that have crept down
the ruts of history – dirty
because thought adheres
lazily to carnage
created by thought.
From a bough beneath my window whistles
incentive rope – noose in tow:
a cure for life-incepted hassles –
passing on my extant blows.
Death's urge is tossed in every carcass
at inception through to life's decease.
I'm a hung journey bleached in darkness
till the break gasp of my necks release.
The assembled assumptions
governing what she was
as she waved a concentrated whisper -
in a silence peculiar, thoughtless.
wishing the hat from his head at distance.