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FROM THE PAGE

was writing, writing
writing

could not get the words right
(right meaning “exact”,
not in league with
some
masquerading devil

who would march us up
in our regiments, crisply uniformed,
to the iron
gates of Heaven

where angels with machine-guns
check our credentials
let us In)

no the words, as you see here, were
running away from me
flying off at tangents
swirling on the wind
without focus or power

and who would read such
preposterous metaphors,
ridiculous images
Cassandra warnings of
the end to all polity?

and yet
hopeless as the poem is
however ineffectual

the forces of denial are battering away
smashing at my door, pressed up
against my window
desperate to prevent my pen
producing a line, managing
a choice phrase

for this dominion must be absolute, no
dissent is
tolerable

even this sad, worthless effort
blood-washed from the page

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