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Friday, 16 December 2022

I had not got what I should have ticked onto your thorax,
and then, without eating all my dedicated scapegoats,
without blaming each of my history bundles,
just remained silent due to that long,
dark evening in St Albans when I ran through
on the Sandpit lane's dark-pink tongue,
where the foxes were nictitating to me
below the dishevelled bushes.
The process: being honest,
that was that part of the thought I tried to digest.
I did not want to bear this void on my miserable back.
Yes, I knew who I had never been or I could not be,
and I am aware of my solitude now.
If this currently is that particular piece,
the time we try to force my alienism to be clarified for those
who were sleeping around me in that street, in that city,
in this country. Since 2016, I have tried to keep back-smiling,
pretending I was a part of your gradually decaying jelly.
Is it political dung content? Are you smiling? Am I kidding?
Why did we mock as we would use those concepts, soul and freedom?
Why is the night sky perplexing from this map,
from pinpoint here? 
Watching the field in front of the Cathedral,
those old grave crosses like stout fingers from the soil,
from Mad Squirrel pub's garden
the whole view is peaceful, as everything in this city,
nobody anxious, nobody killing, nobody yelling
in middle-class purgatory,
I did try to keep loving it, and again.



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