I threw my words up in the air
So they would fall at random.
I put some paper on the floor
For these words to land on.
They lay there like a shredded page.
I pushed them with my fingers.
Until I made a verse from them
Which suits wild drunken singers.
A Jackson Pollock of the page.
Post modern verbal mistress
As Picasso haunts Greek labyrinths
With post modern art’s distresses.

I welcome comments and criticism

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