Oh Fitzgerald, how I hate you

When the poems in your head don’t suffice.

When you are left rummaging through 

The detritus of those which mean nothing

Nothing at all to you:

The umbilical of the past, the metaphors of the blasted English language

The rapidly edited scenes of escape from 

The black-and-white Western films

That mean Fatherhood…

The VHS tape scenes that smell of the static of freshly switched off CRTs

The .avi files of beautiful visions

All ring and echo like the closing credits of a B Grade horror film guaranteed to have 12 sequels

The blowing wind,

The flotsam of memory,

The Buzzfeed and Facebook articles,

That concatenate the hours and minutes and days,

Into one single gibberish existence.

But much as I thrash and rend and burn,

All I am left asking myself, 

Is the wonderfully phrased question

(which is not original either), 

‘What else is there”?


Now Playing: ‘Devil’s Arcade’ & ‘Empty Skies’, Bruce Springsteen


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