The poetic form must be the earliest form of minute taking. It’s very very close to painting and music; very anti-linear, forever unfinished and unpredictable.
It’s the thread connecting wolves and angels which interests me
From the base camp of last week’s conversation
I’ve ascended, descended, ascended
I found the gates, I lost the gates, but here I am again
Expectant, excited
The crowd is vast – must be millions
Held in murmuring exhalations – whistling inhalations
The incoming tide
Fidgets at the thrice-locked doors
We whoop and yell for the performance to begin
Searchlights sweep across the crowded sky
Drums pound out the rhythm
We can already taste the diesel fumes of disappointment
Some of the lads howl like wolves
At the sight of the hovering angels
And the angels squatting deep in the luxury of our throw-away lives
Watch with curiosity as Beckett’s tramp-team compare blisters
Squabble and elaborate on the finer points of existential theology
But you and I know it’ll only end in tears
A bloody fight fought with grim determination
Blow for blow till utter exhaustion intervenes
Even now the tide’s sliding into disrepute.