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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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Hole in the Wall: The Tide Formed My Pool

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The Tide Formed My Pool

 When the tide wash in from billions of kilometers away.
I found myself tossed within the mirth.
And within this stirred up sentiment.
In the rubbish and the forgotten.
I became my new reality.
The one of prosperity and real economic growth.
As best described by the social commentators of the day.

 Despite the widening gap that separates the haves and have nots.
And the separatists and the terrorists.
And the defenders of old orders and wants of youth.
And the arguments that form the threats of war
My new found contentment places me.
Within the data of acceptable trends.
Within what is normal for my age.
My gender.
My genetical heritage.

Then as forecasted, the tide seeped out.
And so began the new realities and our new stories that had to be acquired.
Just look at me, as I shine under the cyclical moonlight.
As now in true fullness, I bloom and reflect calm beauty.
In stillness and patience, I make little comment.

 I shingle and sparkle in my owned bubbly pond.
The rocks, concrete, coral, shells, and plants decorate my boundaries.
I splash, wallow and dart in the confines of my fortress.
Under the canopy of stars.
Of the milky way.
Of the cosmos.
Of this wondrous existence.
Make no mistake, I will defend any threats that question my existence.

And as though in sickness I still continue to want and consumption.
I am insular and demanding.
I am forever hungry.
I have been nurtured to this right.
It is deep in my soul that I act out my exterior avatar.
I know that my reality is translucent and fragile.
No matter what reinforcement I shape.

It has been through hard work and determination that this pleasure became mine.

 It is not in my sense of being to reach deeper into myself.
I refuse to self-doubt, my time.
I have other who do that.
Those who charge themselves to represent me.
They take the opportunity to discover my part of their within.
They are paid well.
As a pack of interconnected zealots, they quarrel to influence my approval.
But I refuse to approve as I am too busy tendering to myself.
It's just that I want to experience the moments of conscious existence.
As would a stone, a twig, or leaf touched by night light.
Make the noise to seek my attention.
But I am not listening when I'm feeling rewarded.




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