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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


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