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The Empire of the Primrose

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  Empire of the Primrose poem The city fell in a single night.  Holding it would take longer. So the painters were summoned,  and the saints on the walls were given his family's eyes. A bloodline was found for him,  older than the walls,  older than the kings who raised them. Now even the earth must forget it ever belonged to anyone else. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shad...
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Godin Paradise

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Godin Paradise
And when the door is left open
Weary from all those confrontations
Are there any who really feel at ease?
With those who are prepared to pay
And others are paid to ward off evil
With money in hand quality of service is near enough guaranteed
So that the hordes of fattened bodies are able to bask in the sun
Tendered to, by their belief in the protection of wealth
In this a slender time where nothing can be permitted to go wrong
And yet in this field of bliss, we tentatively know reaping can rear and strike






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