Many acts of violence line that road, Each granting planning permission for the next And revealing the ruthlessness, short-sightedness And shooting-yourself-in-the footedness Of he-hit-me-first politics. I was left with nowhere to go And nowhere was precisely where I had to go. I became a nowhere man, Sitting in his Nowhereland, Drawing all his nowhere maps For nobody.
I’ve spent more years writing in cafes Than Keats lived, But I’ve made it to 60, Happy with my whereabouts. I’m pleased to be nowhere With an eagle’s view of everywhere. On a clear day, you can see forever. Aidan Clarke