In public spaces
There is no ‘I’
There is only ‘me’
And I know that anywhere
I can be seen
Watched by closed circuit eyes
Waiting for something to happen
Something to become news
And I remember, then
That I can become news
That I am a subject here
In the other sense
The sense of kings
Rightly, I am only an object
Among eyes
I become regular here
A fixture
I blend in
I used to stand out
When I was younger
But now I settle
into the stone buildings
And concrete
Like a gray man
On his way from a contract
And I remember the boy
Who fell for his own reflection
And I’m reminded of an orange troll
A yellow flower
And the gray man
One with the background
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Sometimes, it's nice to generate a poem using nothing but your own brain. This poem is inspired by a description of the poet Stan Rice's style "paranoiac surreal". I can fully commit myself to developing a sense of the "paranoiac surreal" if I haven't incidentally done so already.
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