Monday, 24 February 2014

50. I Dreamt All the Young Poets Wandering through the Building

for Emily Critchley

Hear through this place where the night falls bald
Upstairs we are all poets, young & ferocious, now
Rooty muumuus are our dress & we’re all very pissed
All, all again, mad, questing & dirty, sad

Voyage to where we are desired & forget the aches
Porridge plasters cover our mouths so we are silent too
Water’s memorable here because of what we do to it
Shaken, all again, repeatedly & vehemently into purple

Improved ways of manoeuvring ideology aren’t getting it
Whatever’s actual, that feels right, come on, oh
More hopeful decay to montage us off the shelf
It is just so noisy when that pattern cracks & breaks

I am hopeful despite this that what is strange will say
That we must never deny utterance to that hopeful “NO!”
But as we flurry through the corridors ignore each small fidget
Of dead white chalk, no more pleasure than cancer

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