Nobody wants to read about ‘The failure of conservatism in modern British poetry’ nowadays. Here I sit at shelf mark 821.9109/DUN, an attraction only for dust. Oh woe is me! Why will no one read me? I’m terribly bored, with only these other poetry criticisms for company. I’ve even taken to writing my own poetry:
Flickering dust motes
The sun strains to capture you
But shadow reigns here
(That was a haiku, in case you didn’t know.)
Aaaahhhhhh! There’s someone here, they are looking at the shelves, and they’re coming this way! Oh please, oh please, pick me. NOOOOO… don’t you dare pick up the Byron! He’s been studied enough. Choose something more original for Plath’s sake.
You have lovely brown eyes. Oh! You brush my spine with a single fingertip. You ease me from the shelf and peruse my blurb. I can’t take it all in, the feeling of freedom, the breeze between my pages. It’s wonderful!
Then you put me back.
How dare you play with my feelings this way! Joke’s on you, I didn’t want to be out on loan out anyway. I’ve seen the way books come back with bent spines, scribbled pencil marks and a plethora of post-its. The library staff always take the battered books away for restoration but they’ll never be quite the same again. I never want to be taken out, it’s not worth it. I’ll just hang out here until someone refined and of good taste requires my services. Someone has to do a dissertation on ‘The failure of conservatism in modern British poetry’