Week 18 | Post | Contents
Post 9/11,
is it possible to post
anything resembling
a postulate without
posturing?
In this world of postal strikes
and lamp-post hangings
is there any point posting bail?
To be allowed to re-enter
…what?
Years after the last post,
when this poor planet’s
post-nuclear detonation
and some inquisitive alien
species floats over
to do the post-mortem
on the rubble, what
will they make of us?
In the postlapsarian age,
what will they make of this
post-Modern post?
Be gentle,
fickle posterity.
I am no imposter
(and have no repost).
I’ve no posterior motives
and have posed no threat.
I’ve no wish to postpone
the inevitable postcoital coyness.
I’m the post-op poster child
for the poseurs, post-dated
for posthumous obscurity.
What was I supposed to say?
My post-graduate was a posterized ploy
dreamt up by postilions and priests
– poorly signposted pratfalls.
Please, fresh postpartum parents
poised to provide,
practice your postprandial prayers
for the postmen,
who
won’t
knock
after
four.
Who was the last notch on your bed post?
Answers on a postcard.
-Phil Brown
Poetry Editor
