The world has gone mad.
Depth is in.
The TV channels are all filled with poetry;
so much poetry.
Not that trite, rhyming bollocks,
but the really, really heavy stuff.
But nobody’s watching TV. Everyone is reading the latest
puzzlingly impenetrable work of poets.
The world has gone deep.
Madness is in.
Everyone is negotiating meaning with metaphors,
too busy to commit crime, or work.
Suspicious of appearances, consumed with inward distances,
and the cosmetics manufacturers have all gone out of business.
This, then, is poetry
for the end of everything.
The detachment of language