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Two thousand and nine.
And what’s to write for?
Feeling like all’s been done.
But has it really?
And if the answer’s yes, what matters it?
See, the need to document
is ever at the door.
And through the eyes of one who writes
there’s always something more.
Poetry, alas, and its abstract contrivances
would appear to have abandoned me.
Or perhaps I’ve abandoned it?
And if the answer’s either way, what matters it?
We’ve had the demon who kills demons,
the serial killer who stalks his own.
Jade Goody’s marriage (bless),
the shattering truth of our money managers revealed
(were we really so surprised?).
Love in all its many forms,
sprayed across our pages like mud flung from
a bogged down tyre.
Ragings against the state of the world
as seen through media spectacles.
works two ways, that one.
Sight, sound, touch, taste, smell.
thought, feeling, prescience.
How about numbness?
Not a feeling is it, in the body sense?
All’s been done?
I’d stick with that.
But half of it’s been forgotten and needs to be re-learned,
re-written down, re-captured.
Dry your eyes then, me.
The end’s a long way off.
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