by Eros Livieratos
The world is on fire, you shout
as if a prophetic Diogenes, some
mirror held to habits. You said
there was nothing left to do.
We’d rot like Plath on the shelf, singing
songs of deceased folk singers—I wonder
if they’re driving right now, writing
in a journal—injecting dirty
creativity. Heavenly dreams
burnt out when faced with
the rules espoused from all
those gods we were warned
about—I find myself wishing
I believed. An old man died today.
Your hands were the fountains
of Love Park or no-named Square
centered in a Mississippi hole
which we’ll generalize as not to burn
any consistent ideologies—where
the art comes from. Duchamp lives
from New York and dies in Kansas, a still
life, assemblage—the world is on fire
and the roots only grow in the Metropolitans.
You shout. I listen.
I burn—I listen.
Eros Livieratos is an undergraduate at William Paterson University studying philosophy and creative writing. Eros’ writing tackles topics of race, toxic masculinity, aesthetics, and technology. Eros plays in noise bands in New Jersey and can often be found yelling about aesthetics & automation in your local basement.