Contrived and vibrant,

the garden of flora blooms.

 

It is His hand, coated in

thorns, and His thumb glowing

Red.

It was joy that He found,

directly or indirectly,

from the suffering of the

Blooms.

 

Their blossoming bosoms

were doused in pain:

adaptation was necessary.

 

Just as their vibrancy became poor;

their language became poor.

 

The conformist culture:

perpetuance of the cult of domesticity,

promotion of de jure segregation,

protection of the provocative Protestant

-- and incriminated Catholic.

 

He, it was He, who reigned:

his pale hand choked

the fervidity of language

from the

promising poets,

perfect prosers,

passionate producers of the art

of art.

 

avow aim . . . to destroy 'The Man'

 

He has choked the life of language

to become nothing but words of pain.

If art is only pain,

then we are merely producing

coping mechanisms for ourselves . . .

creativity falls into the margins.

 

Our poets are never seen beyond

a depressed adolescence.

Our painters are never seen beyond

a commercial logo conveyor.

Our artists are never seen beyond

an optimistic hobbyist.

 

Return the Flowers.

Do not let even the Baby's breath

fall to The Man.