I am hung-over reading poems on the National Poetry Day website.
There is one about an erection, another about uselessness = men
and flowers, another about being skint. A dog or is that God. Every-
thing will be Okay?
Terrible Haiku;
pro isolation and fear;
vaccine injuries.
And a list: instead of this, instead of that. I cannot help thinking.
Trigger warning in bold. I do not read much more than that. One
triggers a sad memory, some thirty years ago running like a banshee
or was that screaming. Shall I go and live in Cuba? The weather is nice
and the health care is better than here, I hear. However, not over
there, No! Where he had escaped from to arrive some years later
in an art gallery in South London. Hum-drum. Am I just bored of life?
It is cloudy outside and cold in here. When I call the food bank
the line is busy. I do not want to enter into games of whom
has got it worse. However, it is defiantly them. After all, we are
not made material, are we? The heavy metals in the air have broken
my blood brain barrier and are controlling my motor functions.
Another terrible
Haiku. This one is about
Zoom, rations, Covid
I’m in grief and denial. Free verse, not free is it. Its lines lead to catastrophe.
Its conceit is nauseating and their premises are predicable. When
the cataclysm happens, and it will. In one hundred years from now, tell me
‘who will remember all the players, remember all the clowns?’
