Today I burned my poems
a bonfire of my own vanities
words sent skywards
on vortices of their own hot air's making
Some caught in nearby trees
others falling upon the Westway
the majority fly skyward taunting
a million empyrean chimps shakespearing
at their keyboards.
I imagine abstract condensing
amid cumulus then
falling Burroughs like
as alphabet rain forming
nonsense puddles in foreign fields
Or circling vulture like
over a carcass
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