in the eighties

by dm gillis

then
I sat at a typewriter
with a cigarette, in my
dog-eared hollow of songs
positioned in the east light
by a magazine photographer
firing bullets of black and white
because poets, in the storm of it all,
are always monochrome

I recall a university press
in a gush of its kind
praising how I brutalised my nouns
with adjectives

it was a utopian decade
of art, paper pages and time

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