6  New Year Poem


Like the children stuck
In some colossal stupid game
Blindly on into the night
Rushing out and in:
                                            it's
Three o'clock, it's nearly midnight
And I am 43 or 4
Here. Why?

Lucid interrogations of language
Can't help any more than personal expression, or
Ideological construct or process
Acting against what set it up.

Suddenly it is
Cold rain, responsibility and the return
Of the bad dreams
The ones of falling

This is where you pause in falling
And realise
Acceleration is what is constant
And what that means
How short
At the end of life
To look back on it all
As there was nothing
There but an unfinished game
A few chalk marks and bits
Like outgrown clothes
Worn out bodies
Suddenly
Come round faster
Again