No More News

When I was young I had a book
huge and tombstone-heavy, called

CHRONICLE OF THE 20TH CENTURY

Newspapers from every year. I
read it feverishly and the breadth of

human disaster seeped into me
like a sponge. I think of my poems as part chronicle, part

biography, spluttering like a tap
making a timeline. October: Revolution,

guys stapled in like the squares
that stand for churches on maps.

Small scale: I’ve penned the unmedicated
see-saw of waking every day as ‘I’

and the sensitivity that idles suicidal on
train platforms and cries at photos

of dead children. But these days
I feel everything so heavily

I think my eyes are rebelling –
at the bus stop I saw floaters like

jellyfish in clear soup and my
head said crunchily
no more News
You can’t write about everything that’s made you feel sad.

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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