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My poignant little reflection on how history will fade your name. Yes, Ozymandias, that sort of stuff...
A Dustjacket Hero
So the general marshalled his men,
Martyr and misfit, a dustjacket hero,
A hundred years on the radios whistle and crackle
And chatter away his campaign maps of yellowing China
Compound the idea that
Everything spirals into a nebulous, twisted
Nowhere, a riot of history,
Purpling autumns, far-flung galaxies. No matter,
I will worship your second hand pages as if they were mine,
My mirror, my triumph, my stupidity.
They might as well be. Why not?
summer 1997, Bolton.
Sand and Slag
Chaos reins in her sand and slag
In her salmon pink disorder
Chained between coalface and power station,
Cloudgrimed industrial mountainside,
Trackside and hedge withering under the knot of sky and sun,
A golden future floated on ethereal markets,
what it can in fact will it never enter his head to say no only spin quark spin.
- Summer 1997, Bolton, England