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“ I t ’ s o v er


I can’t keep up and I w o n ’ t t r y .” Transaction to inaction? Looks like you’ve found t h e r i g h t l u l l . The sun cures all hatred. History demands intelligibility at all costs. The bus goes past, its own grotesque cost is quiet, removed from talk.

Talks are our only forum now, and no one wants to go.

Transaction. (I want a speedy exchange, so turn over. And cover your face.)

Any thing that takes you away bitter thing

before sunrise is a , resigned early mornings in the slump of excess. Time’s measurements are Babylonian.

Babylon is just another military base. The trial of being. Missing out on your rights. There is nothing more to accumulate. Employment cannot manufacture agency.

Death is prepared at a damp, sticky, red

desk on the 37th floor after the cleaners have gone home.





BANKER SUICIDE. The snow is white as sky, the desk is strewn with pills, buckets catch the bleeding

promise never to be here again. WHEN THEY FIND HIM HIS MOUTH IS STUFFED FULL OF

LAVENDER, which is frequently used as an aid to sleep and relaxation.

'Made Off', Marianne Morris  

Poem by Marianne Morris