Poem: The Ages of Print

Tomorrow's chip wrapping is the first to go
yesterday's dead already coddle my roe.

Then there's the leaflets for food so fast
The green bin has gobbled them before they've hit the mat.

Porn, crumpled under holly – abandoned pups, dirty eggs laid dead of night,
cunts torn out, blacked out or worse, moustached and goggled. Scorched minge; glorious half-life.

Next, those that last through being overlooked.
Christian comic books. The Women's Library's unfiled tracts.

Annuals which hibernated teenage years to adulthood's irony.
Hardbacks cannot be chucked. Illustrated Treasure Islands

heft the same taboo as Reader's Digests, damming up the chazzers.
Signed Histories of the English Speaking Peoples, yellowing

duodecimally in fire-alarmed cellars. Ciphers as yet unconjectured.
Value these: Dead Sea Scroll, Euromillions winner, love letter.

Now, we place this poem. Bonfire, museum. I trust your soft clean hands.



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I wanted to write something about all this printed material we're surrounded by, how we sort it, and maybe what it feels about itself without knowing it. I'm quite happy to have written a poem that's not facetious. But genuinely, let me know what you think.