AFTER HORACE

I feel like maybe I’m at last getting back
into the swing of things though most of my
new work is devoid of subject matter but
not really I read the news but don’t care
about it all that much though I’m sad face
when so much seems to be in disarray Some
times I despair but as when e.g. an absence
of punctuation makes you uncomfortable my
advice is always that you look on the bright
side: This is something else I’ve been doing
a lot since the bed of love was removed by
the removal men and ditched in a ditch: in
my imagination I am girded with girdles
upon my loins I am exceeding in dyed
attire upon my head after the manner of
the Babylonians but when all that proves
to be of no avail I wonder if the self is too
often of too much importance But then again
I don’t know what else there is to talk about
Perhaps the threat of snow? Or how in this day
and age of high speed transit and industrial
revolution—it is, after all, the early years
of the 19^th century—getting from A to B
before you’ve even left home is a supremely
satisfying achievement And now my watch
is telling me my heart-rate is not what it ought
to be but the ‘Why’ and the ‘How’ of it beats
me: all I do is read and sleep and eat and drink
and drink and eat and sleep and read though
sometimes I steal a few moments to despair
and I wonder: Do you have any questions?

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Martin Stannard

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