@poet’s corner 10 dec 2025

fellow poets, the end is nigh. 

this is called, the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

life under actually existing capitalism continues; 

a unique combination of boring and stressful

the yoga word lost to an armed counter revolution 

be mindful, namaste, 

despite the flames, be restful

the firewater fades to a numb, dumb dysphoria

as we tag along 

behind the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse 

on foot due to cutbacks

i think about time a lot, the hopeless impossibility of the past, its unchanging nature, its doubtful provenance. but do facts remain or do they change over time? the despots of the past become sanitised by history. they become great men. nearly always men anyway.

but we don’t need great leaders. we need stability, peace, equality, food, shelter and entertainment. we need good company.

this is called

endless time

how would you feel 

if everything happened forever 

if every moment of your life was still ongoing 

everything always in total contradiction 

i want the unexpected

off script, dumbfound me

astonish me quick 

with your attention to retail 

when they finish the history books we’ll see

we just have to just accept the past

it happened

i was once diagnosed with a terminal illness. that was the start of my midlife crisis. i was then completely undiagnosed on my 39th birthday. a misread x-ray was all it was. i went to decathlon and listened to madonna.

i remember the days after diagnosis. feeling so heavy. feeling like i could forget to breathe. this is called 

lonely consequence

maybe we can choose 

our consequences

and gain energy as the 

days accumulate 

have i mentioned my inability to visualise the future?

scared, listless, 

unreadily forced to bear witness

a dusken golden moment lighted

a sudden recognition; 

that leaden feeling 

when they tell you are going to die

is loneliness, 

as much of it as you can have.

my on and off girlfriend and i were finally turning the dial fully to off. we were taking active steps to move on. it seemed like that was what we were going to do. i decided i would focus more on my housework. but as usual. the temptation to check in arose. 

inconclusive, in conclusion

anyway, that was yesterday, 

with that we close the chapter

for now the winter sun flits 

over scarecrows, toclips and frosty nips

and it all begins to feel conclusive 

but then the things as usual 

start to get ambiguous

and once again of the good souls 

we must ask forgiveness 

and one last thing. this is the last chorus of the first year of my epic, ongoing, poem, the love epochal. 

the redemptive final chorus

o wean in a manger, 

your chocolate trough 

it’s a preposterous amount but 

somehow never enough 

i have a theory 

that love is pain

different but the same