by Walker Zupp, edited by Rebecca Parkinson
‘I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time,’
I said half-soaked outside the pub. This time
It was true but truth being what it is,
It came at the end of a day
When workers roam in their weak-kneed way
And there is nothing more good to say
To anything, anyone; hers or his,
Mine or theirs: a halfhearted reception
To any feeling made flesh; collections
Of people who all feel second to none,
Making things up as they go. Lies
Tell so well; fact paralyzed
Undoubtedly, it all flies
When they pull the blanket over the sun.
And inevitably amongst laughter
There is anger and hate, moments after
I shut the fuck up – not at my money
Or the hatred I have for twats
In hats or anything like that,
But at the hopeless end, all sat
Inside rooms. Nothing remotely funny
At all – paper in the bin.
That photograph on the wall.