DOUGLAS A. KARSON
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Mirror Me

23/9/2018

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My mirror me stares back and sees the unknown
He lives in an alternate reality
Timed perfectly
But everything has changed
Left is right
Run is fight
Like a scroll rolling closed from the wrong direction
He starts old and goes through life getting younger
More energetic
Full of wonder
Is it the same with a selfie?
A third party in the cloud
Where I doubt
That humanity’s wings can last
Mirror me just laughs
So do I
Our opposite selves separated by silence
Mouths move but don’t speak
Just apertures made the wrong way
Not just my mirror self
My body drifts into unconsciousness
Where my gestures cease
I hope he enjoys his body
I’m loving growing old
Gray haired face staring back
Creaky joints that complain
I have an excuse to move slowly
Mirror me concedes our vanity as we continue to stare

I promise
I’ll remember you

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Prime

17/9/2018

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Deliver me from evil
I’ve got Prime
Give me the right to turn away as jobs decay
I need that next day!
Shipped by slaves
Over packaged items left on my secure front porch
This paper is recycled
So my guilt can be pulped and re-used
Passed down to those without proper facilities
I don’t want to think about where my item came from
I’ve got Prime
That’s OPP (Other People’s Problems)
If they wanted a better life, they should have been better at life
They should’ve subscribed to Prime
It’s the first past the post
Who sends letters these days anyway?
Post office death can be pre office payday
Long as I get my bonus
The other’s shoulda got Prime
It’s the best cut
1000% pure grass fed ex-rainforest convenience
Delivered from who cares where to your plate
Oh, is it wasteful not to consume the whole animals?
Don’t worry
I’ve got Prime
It’s all white meat chicken breast
White is pure don’t you know
Brown boxes are easier to dispose of
Especially when you’ve got Prime
It’s a members only club where all you have to do is look the other way and pay
Let them be evil for me
I’m a good person

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Quiet Poet

12/9/2018

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The last poet continued to write as the world crumbled to dust
The last bombs had fallen long ago and the sun no longer shone
Slow death and starvation had taken the bulk of the population
The crops and plants failed
What else to do but write
No way to set this right
No tomorrow is another day
No Hollywood ending
He didn’t know he was the last poet
That when the ribbon of inspiration in him ceased
The world would be a darker place
He just wrote
With no ambition nor illusion of an audience to see nor read
He wrote what he felt
He wrote cause he needed
And he carried on writing until his skeleton hands lost the strength and his thin breathe ceased
And the world
Was left

Quiet

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    Douglas Karson

    I love poetry.

    It can be whimsical or epic, unbearably long or just two memorable lines, mature and dark or light and childish.

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