empire of Marmite

IMG_0951

lacking, as has so

often been impressed

on me

 

the salt of the earth

I languish here

at the end of Xmas

 

resembling one of

those final men

who will exist

 

after everything

the no-clue men

in no-men’s land

 

listening so hard

as if the self was merely

a filter for it

 

to Shostakovich’s

rare 8th Symphony

– the anti-Stalinist timpani –

 

after folding two slices

of Sainsbury’s wholemeal

into halves like

 

a butterfly print

to supplement the salt

I require as

 

an unravelling

wanderer in

confusing temporality

 

the Russian project

after its Modernist

phase gathering

 

the dense

entropy – retreating-

due to

 

the usual

ever-predictable

territorial over-stretch

 

just like Ur, old

Babylon (a stellar place

to be on a Friday night)

 

or America itself

too thinly spread

those imperial forces