i read the old stuff –
not for the ego-salve
amazement
as dead poems come off
my overworking lips
flying like lies
and little sparkle memories
of godzilla
and not for the framed certificate
comes with some framed exam
off some framed course
suggesting i’ve framed
some magical framing knowledge
at the cuddly happy end of it
and i don’t even do it
to have done it –
my bravery doesn’t reach
to putting another shelf up
just to fuck me back again
missing the step
on my way back down
from drilling –
i’d say I do it for curiousity
to bounce and be a child
and not know and just
rush into what the adventurers
are getting up to
to join in the mad bastard
rush into the possibility
but that’s a lie as well
what it mostly is
when I trawl the charity shops
i pick up
what nobody else wants –
big thick old stinky books
tatty spined
2 columns a page
1000 pages poetry
annotated
an essay to start
just like me
large out-of-date and cheap
i go home and start reciting
i sound good
sonorous serious and boomy
with a steady step
and it annoys my dad
i refuse to become
a modern
(David McLintock)