Unfortunately there are shackles to the soul. Holes in the bones and a hallow in the heart. Unfortunately there is poison in the blood. Tar in the mind and a absence of love.
Unfortunately there is a cloud, a fog, a misty haze, blocking out all from simple gaze. A sadness so wretched it cant help but seep in a darkness so pure it cant help but win.
Try as you must try as you might you cant hope to be free it's a darkness that lives and thrives on your very insecurities. A wicked beast a monster a devourer of happiness, hope and joy. You'll get the scraps it will say. The pain, misery, that hollow emptiness that's for you to enjoy.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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