Stop me hearing Billy Collins. He’s in my head.
And after I’ve googled some of his stuff and read
a busload of enough, his voice insinuates
itself on top of mine. And we conflate.Then, line by line,
our urbane drawl softly sidles into Kevin Spacey
probably in a polo-neck, his words a swizzle-stick
to the dry
Martini of the written page.It’s the disadvantage
of this Age:
the written word spoken in celebrity choruses
crowds us out
in everything we read, It whispers,it croaks, It shouts,
screams and yells:
a peeling crescendo of familiar strangers’ bells.
I gingerly poke around the pre-gramophone authors
to hear what sound the voiceless poets proffer.
Guzzled down in gulps, in non-prescription sky-high doses
to counteract the cacophony, a century of psychosis.
Through libraries, in ghostly silence, modernity mutters
in my ear,
for now, when I want to be alone I read the dead folk,
If its not too late, and you’ve stumbled on this poor page by
chance or choice
and seek a solipsistic moment, please read- before you
hear my voice.