A PRIVATE AFFAIR

We all deserve the flourish of a Flag…

A private Flag, stitched with precision along the terrain of pulsating skin;
Causing the furtive flutter of coarse fabric upon a private heartbeat, with the release of a private breath, with the unholy exchange of paper bags of Heaven across windows stamped on to weeping walls embracing dank private alleyways…
The flourish of a Flag. Private.



Rucksacks of paint inflict perforations on the self, spewing forth polychrome rivulets of Choice.
Shreds of white may be soaked to their bare threads to arise Phoenix-like,
to arise in tremulous Blue, or somber Green; to slip underneath stiff public portals cryptic assertions of Democracy, of Peace…of a violently homogeneous polity in a Future foreseen.



To parody Conformity in impish delight,
weave the Flags.
Don them like a Toga or a seven-yards-wonder perhaps.
Emboss on to Official Paper your mock-resignation to the colossal Theatre of Symbols which stages nightly vaudevillian puppetry;
The puppets of the Nation- Flag, Stamp, Anthem and all!
All! Lashed into agility by the frayed ropes of Geography…latitudes and longitudes fast fading into fragments of fiction!
And while Fiction is forged elsewhere, continue with the weaving,
Of a Private.
Of a Private, private Flag.