Lose
that Italian leather-bound plot
however you like –
It won’t be missed, believe you me;
A remote island nation, you surely are:
Poisonous, quivering flora
Rabid, parasitic fauna
Hidden caches of WWII-era death toyz
Prostrate skeletons clawing still and ever-silent shores –
An unmapped paradise, perhaps
An arid no-man’s-land?
The whirlpool’s end:
A psychic vise?
3 comments:
I'm curious as to what/who inspired this poem.
A lunchtime conversation yesterday between myself and the Constable about folks we thought were solid friends of ours, only to be subsequently disappointed. So: it's about a number of people, most of whom are already disappearing into the hazy mists of memory. (Good riddance!)
That actually reignites a thought I had to make a mix tape about the same thing.
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