JURASSIC
we grasp
we create
imaginary worlds
in abundance
hold up mirrors to
our nature than little
old Hamlet could never
have foreseen
would have
fallen off the stage
in pure
stupefaction
(and his author too,
for that matter)
and yet
for all this gnosis
we remain in essence
still prehensile
machine-like, true,
but prone to self-
subvert
and so, like the entire planet,
I was spellbound watching
Mr Spielberg’s tale cautionary
wondrous meditation
upon Mary Shelley’s theme
still
some of that ancient T-Rex,
velociraptor inside of us
the monstrous beauty of
these creatures
blazed across the screen
huge thrill
massive awe
but ultimately, big money,
every cent of which
drained out in sequel after
mindless sequel
these creatures
so passe, defunct,
dead
and threadbare
a different fable
here
about art
and story
and the death of
our species
to be
dragged out kicking
and screaming
into
the light of day.
poems 2 die for 