It had to come to this, arranging flowers
Japanese cult style to the exacting
Nomenclature of goodbye, though as yet
No exit sign appears above the door—Archangels
And the eternal et cetera
The lines around my eyes, like the crumpled spine
Of an old autograph book, the look
As sad as a broken clock, confirm rare-metal elegies
Wheezing to a close
All else, a matter of husbandry—embryos edited
To a teardrop datum worth its salt, between the quick
And the dead our privacy rebranded
By crypto hack bots in digital vaults
Satellites hang nosey
For the news, the world a door
Without a lock
The world is a flag—fascists
In their armouries surfing echo chamber rallies, a snip
Of Python code undermining Eden
Anchor-fluke tatts and tinfoil stars mock
The bardic wreath—Milton’s meters now
Trolls and memes, a devo cache
On the bar room juke
This is about everything, and nothing
I clap my hands below the bright tree, breaking
The sparrow’s dream
Estill Pollock | Contents
Mudlark No. 74 (2023)