As the poet experiences a Multitude of Media.

Silver and immaterial.
2 dimensional,
like the flickering of a computer screen
is my mind.
Ones and noughts.
Noughts and ones.

French women croon
and German couples dance
in their bunkers
and i am far away from where I
should be.
But try as I might, I can’t scream it all away.

Black swans float by
flush with a wall of nothing,
scratching their nails.
Scritch-scratch.

Like nails on me.
Nails on amour.

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