Monday, 13 July 2020
Thursday, 2 July 2020
Not Quite All Our Yesterdays
Not Quite All Our Yesterdays
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Yet in saying what he didn't
He said so much to remind
Me of that cold detachment
Which in his book I still find.
Leaving out flesh on bones
Revealing nuts and bolts
And bones — piles of bones
Awaiting the incinerator of
Life as the robotic machine
Vamps, strums, and sucks
And plucks the drooping
Dead feathers of memory
From their roots so that
Cruel and cold clumps of
Shoots lick even colder
Yawning graves to grind
Us into a history untold.
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