28 February 2024
11 March 2025
everything to die for
if you’re reading this
you’ll know I’m dead, that’s
guaranteed, because I’m
dead now, while I’m writing this
but I don’t feel dead
I lie in bed, next to my wife
she’s reading p. 346 of Frances Partridge’s
Everything to Lose: Diaries 1945–1960
I’m writing this on an A5 lined pad
which rests on John Bishop’s
Joyce’s Book of the Dark which I’m
reading before I plunge into
the dark again, with the modernist
confabulist – you see, the world ended
in 1939 and has been on repeat
ever since and, well…
I’m not born yet, which is crazy
enough to make me want
to begin again before I
begin
well, it seems like 1939
we haven’t learned