Wednesday, 15 May 2019


The usual thing: acquire superpowers, write the book, get the girl – all the girls – become Pres.  Young man’s stuff, but it’s all superheroes these days. This verse, with abandoned references to the cautionary tales and films of the past, keeps the recent film in mind, as its anchor point, even if – desperately unexpanded – the sense skates wildly on.    Sonnets, Gosh.

His ersatz candles burn nuit jour nuit jour
smoking ad-man, recollects men haven’t
burnt full credit yet with brainboxes unspent
on pyromanic favours. Running water
from the taps burns chlorine off as we adore
those bygone years of a limitless lament:
These days we've nothing left to quit for Lent,
allowing TV makes the fire’s replacement.

Superman transfixed by dreams of celluloid.
Being too greedy, love, he’s blue-eyed, GM
hints at likenesses to Dorian Gee,
in his wainscot he's heard termites chomping,
his senses dislocate: that’s hell. Avoid
extremes, our minds intact the best to be.


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