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“I would describe you more as a prose-ist than a poet”

 

“I would describe you more as a prose-ist than a poet”

 

“I would describe you more as a prose-ist than a poet”

It’s true

My broken heart & head

Tend to leave no image

For sound & sense

Like I’m having to pick myself up off the ground constantly

& such a soul can’t soar to mountaintops

Or even muffintops

He can barely get out of bed

He dreads the wetness of the shower

He cannot build Allan Ginsberg’s starry tower

He explains things too painstakingly

Doesn’t a poet work with allusion?

& any poetic line

That by accident arrives

Will then be explained like a textbook

There is no dance at the stillpoint of his turning world

His centre is dry like soap left unwetted too long

This arid broken heart & mind

Creation of consumer culture

Gameshows & despair

Kierkegaard in a polkadot dress

His is a digicolour sickness unto death

But yunno explain it

& it’s redeemed

That’s the joy of prose

Though I most often set it like verse

Life can be shit

& it’s testimony doggerel

But it turns over the ground

& harvests occasional food

So fear not Michael Collins

Be strong in the head

Though it is broken

It is still very hard

& leads forward splitting packs

You are in control of your self

In a world led by maniacs

You are in control of your pen sword

In a world controlled by nihilists

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2025.

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