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Outburst
So what do we know? Or do we assume?
Or can these words
Serve to spin
These half-grasped
Sentiments through
The metaphorical loom?
Would that generalisations were enough,
Of course in truth (and what is that?
The decrees of Murdoch and Pratt?
But let’s avoid the politics)
They’re simply not up to snuff.
And as writing flows
And questions are asked I wonder if I can be arsed as long as
I am content.
I am.
I am?
Damn.
I guess the rhyme destroyed the gravitas from the start.
I guess I hope I won’t fall
Into the postmodern trap...
Even if all this is gazing at the navel,
Of which sin I assure you one is able,
I guess I hope I can chink the armour
Of the paradoxes that pass us,
Support us,
Are forgotten by us in these hyper times
In the office, mosque, rural tract
And economy-driven pact.
And in the essential pleasure within the lack of measure
That justifies my response.
My own, uninfluenced, nuanced response,
Made without a case to answer
And an empty wig upon the bar.
