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A gray dawn breaks
Over the deaf-mute space ocean
And UD shuts the window of morning readings
To tap out electric greetings:

The better part of wisdom is to share
Keep your mind in hell and do not despair.
In interludes among fests of nativity,
Do not forget the voice of our declivity:

“Why do people fear dying alone and unloved?
What difference does it make?”
“You know in the end, none of it matters,
What happens to you in your life. Not suffering.
Not happiness or unhappiness. Not illness. Not prison. Nothing.

Among some porcelain, among some talk of you and me
Do not forget: The blood jet is poetry.

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2 Responses to “UDesque Seasons Greetings”

  1. dmf Says:

    A slight relax of air where cold was
    And water trickles; dark ruinous light,
    Scratched like old film, above wet slates withdraws.
    At garden-ends, on railway banks, sad white
    Shrinkage of snow shows cleaner than the net
    Stiffened like ectoplasm in front windows.

    Shielded, what sorts of life are stirring yet:
    Legs lagged like drains, slippers soft as fungus,
    The gas and grate, the old cold sour grey bed.
    Some ajar face, corpse-stubbled, bends round
    To see the sky over the aerials—
    Sky, absent paleness across which the gulls
    Wing to the Corporation rubbish ground.
    A slight relax of air. All is not dead.

  2. dmf Says:

    God was dead: to begin with.
    And romance was dead. Chivalry was dead. Poetry, the novel, painting, they were all dead, and art was dead. Theatre and cinema were both dead. Literature was dead. The book was dead. Modernism, postmodernism, realism and surrealism were all dead. Jazz was dead, pop music, disco, rap, classical music, dead. Culture was dead. Decency, society, family values were dead. The past was dead. History was dead. The welfare state was dead. Politics was dead. Democracy was dead. Communism, fascism, neoliberalism, capitalism, all dead, and marxism, dead, feminism, also dead. Political correctness, dead. Racism was dead. Religion was dead. Thought was dead. Hope was dead. Truth and fiction were both dead. The media was dead. The internet was dead. Twitter, instagram, facebook, google, dead.

    Love was dead.

    Death was dead.

    A great many things were dead. Some, though, weren’t, or weren’t dead yet.

    Life wasn’t yet dead. Revolution wasn’t dead. Racial equality wasn’t dead. Hatred wasn’t dead.

    But the computer? Dead. TV? Dead. Radio? Dead. Mobiles were dead. Batteries were dead. Marriages were dead, sex lives were dead, conversation was dead. Leaves were dead. Flowers were dead, dead in their water.

    Imagine being haunted by the ghosts of all these dead things. Imagine being haunted by the ghost of a flower. No, imagine being haunted (if there were such a thing as being haunted, rather than just neurosis or psychosis) by the ghost (if there were such a thing as ghosts, rather than just imagination) of a flower.

    Ghosts themselves weren’t dead, not exactly. Instead the following questions came up:
    are ghosts dead
    are ghosts dead or alive
    are ghosts deadly
    but in any case forget ghosts, put them out of your mind because this isn’t a ghost story, though it’s the dead of winter when it happens, a bright sunny post-millennial global-warming Christmas (Christmas, too, dead) and it’s about real things really happening in the real world involving real people in real time on the real earth (uh huh, earth, also dead).
    Winter, by Ali Smith.

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