Strange how they tend to revolve (those apocalyptic tomes) in literary circles Thirteen unpublished novels weak insipid frivolous from preface to epilogue seek speedy intervention Suddenly out of the blue the first promising inklings (audible to an extent) that their roots are taking hold breaking old gnarled attitudes like poppies after the war
without a shadow of doubt truth is stranger than fiction so steel yourself for a shock... as a martyr to your cause your own childhood ambition to be a holy seer trapped you held you prisoner to a secret you thought safe until you heard the laughter the scornful crazy mocking that flawed your precious diamond that took the shine right off it
DEPENDENTS A poem with no name Makes no sense at all to me As a title is so vital... If only because It strips away a string Of strictly false uncertainties A speech in broken English Soiled sheets, confusing signs All connected, all infected... And all because Goblins drink from goblets Served by gobshites doing lines
Post-war Boom
