It is hard to mix emotion and sincerity
with irony and distance, said a poet more
famous than I. Still, I follow the recipe.
I keep my uncomfortable feelings in
mint condition like comics in plastic bags
on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.
The pills I take to combat side effects
of other pills I take are writing a novel
called Sense and Senselessness. True story.
Yesterday is forever trending. Scientists
have discovered fish on the Great Barrier reef
sing a dawn chorus. Voices in technicolour.
When you run out of map similes, childhood
metaphors, what are you left with? The goods.
Figments are rent to own. Herald the news.
Live life in your own key. Substitute fries
for existentialism. Time to rebrand the ocean.
The moon. Twilight. The stars. Strangely,
I have no ghost-writers. Only ghosts.
Accident or revelation? Is it too much
to ask for both? Face it: details matter
in a poem or in life. I’ve spent years
trying to put lightning on a leash. All
the climate change zealots I know drink
Starbucks. The world was easier to understand
when movies came on celluloid. Truly,
I’m an apocalypse virgin. I’m hoping
to slip a little wisdom past the censors
like a poem must begin in lava, end in cathedrals.
Orange pylons adorn my street this week.
There is a wish to be elsewhere. To go past them.
Save the destination. Go slowly.
By Chris Banks