Monday, 26 July 2021

who will call it a poem

 who will call it a poem



what will be the poem

the poem for the final days

the harping back to the good old days

when tomorrow was a possibility 

or a poem for no tomorrow 

colouring the today’s between


who will write the poem

the poem for the final days

the fool or the penitent of no avail

lost  with the past  back to the wall

burning  tomorrow’s door falling

inwards  all the words choked 


who will say  who is that singing

the poem for the final days

not me  not you  not anybody i vouch

save on top of the climbing upon

the piled bodies  politics intestate 

of the electorate’s claws


who is falling in last with me 

not the poem for the final days

for it is written in the rock of our hearts

in the iron leeched from our dried blood

burnt the spectrum of time

of all living stopped


the poem of the final days

alone in space where no space is perceived

for no perception is

until another self-replicator says

not in any language we know

i have discovered this  and i will call it 


a poem for the early days







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