Wednesday, 20 January 2010

for vic

stupid preoccupations with your pronunciations
find me about to choke some ten years on.
wheelchair-bound, your strange translations
turned to soaring skies and unseen satellites -
new transmissions of the same old let downs,
the sad clowns and and broken crowns
are rhymes of times gone by.
drowned in silver lakes by your slowly shutting eyes,
you let the pills do their work.
you didn't realise
they meant you no harm.
i'll see you around
in your new town.

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