I was writing poetry before bed last night, as I do, occasionally. I’ll spare you my efforts: the results are definitely not worth sharing. And before you get some great romantic notions, I was writing about Brexit and Ireland.
Why do that? Because like all art forms poetry is a way of trying to get a new angle on an issue. The need to find the right word is the challenge that I enjoy. In this case one word came crashing to the forefront of my thinking as a result. Brexit is, I realised, an exercise in disintegration. It’s a word with few positive connotations and it works perfectly.
There will be points for the best entries.
All Is Disintegration
1 The words of the Professor, the Spud of Murphy, Sage of Ely.
2 Disintegration of disintegrations, says the Professor,
disintegration of disintegrations! All is disintegration.
3 What does man gain by all the toil
at which he toils under the sun?
4 A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the tax remains forever.
5 Candidly, all else is neoliberal sophistry.