By Matt Hill

Photo ©Max Reeves

Upon this rim of looking

Practioneers of the wide shot

Poise themselves for a pullback

Their empty gloats

Their past of filmed fragments


Lack the extra cash to slap down on a lark

Even if there might be a vague promise

Of a choppy comeback

Or two ahead …


Max CrowIn the compost heap of available lives

Hovering somewhere above

Wretchedness & misty epiphany

Every dollar now gets watched

Like it might possibly be the last

Realizing also, that every devil

Has some drooling monster inside;

Usually the erstwhile attributions

Of some former fallen angel


Paradise then, really isn’t lost

No, it’s just wandering around

Attempting to get away from the toxins

Of tedium & spilled events


Through the internal shock waves

Of this culture of wind-blown clouds

The primitive lucidities still remaining

Expand through a continuous collapse

Via our last hemorrhage of hope …

Matt Hill


Max Reeves


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