FROM THE PAGE
was writing, writing
writingcould not get the words right
(right meaning “exact”,
not in league with
some
masquerading devilwho would march us up
in our regiments, crisply uniformed,
to the iron
gates of Heavenwhere 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 powerand who would read such
preposterous metaphors,
ridiculous images
Cassandra warnings of
the end to all polity?and yet
hopeless as the poem is
however ineffectualthe 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 phrasefor this dominion must be absolute, no
dissent is
tolerableeven this sad, worthless effort
blood-washed from the page
FROM THE PAGE
18 Saturday May 2019
Posted apocalyptic, Censorship, Control, dark, Devil, Dystopia, Ending, Fascism, Heaven, Hell, Humanity, Lunacy/madness, Poem, Poet, poetry, Poetry, Poetry, political, Politics of poetry/writing/Literature, power, Repression, satire, social comment, The future, utopia/dystopia, writing
in