Harry Man, young British poet |
Not Fixed His Canon
I have scanned the headlines
a hundred times,
and know the perfect way to
poach an egg.
My theatrically posed
electrical guts
are on display through the
roof of my head.
Here my parts are
highly-prized
by the brave or the
certified.
My outpourings are the stuff
of office legend
and the game is up, it was
me all along –
I swallowed the fiscal year
final accounts
and the list of fourth floor
first aiders to avoid capture.
I've lengthened the lives of
your lost pets
and your permits, your
pencilled catalogue pages
your round robin jokes and
cautionary notes
the unflattering discs of
your buttocks.
But I can’t be the hero
forever, I get old
and spill food all over
myself,
I drink too much, or
overexpose,
or become idle in the middle
of instruction.
During operations I need a
bypass
or risk losing your history
forever.
And acting as though nothing
has happened
isn’t acting anymore, it is
how it is
on the tip.
poem by Harry Man; published online with permission of the author.
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