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The Close

there has been little news lately dont bear any weight nor seem worth hearing people stay the same, showing no imprint of time, or of truth, of failing ambitions struggling on. the spring that has come is the same as the last one but this year the fact is not such a comfort. it merely highlights the number itself of springs that have come and have gone monotone. despite this, a walk through some slice of the city my meandering feet have not visited yet provides still the well-known, balmy relief its offered for years, in gilded and dreamy afternoons. if anyone thought Id avoid certain nooks theyd be wrong. I have yet to hear about someone refraining from exile to a land without time and there is no time in the gardens I pass roaming, free. the roses are creeping again up the hedges the quick-budding trees already cast shade I have no plans for my walks, really, and the strong smell of pansies is apt to seduce me off the road. but it should be noted that all of these streets look the same to me. my geography falters. the lanes I have kept to till now, for too long, seem to have spread their intricate mappings over all. here is a staircase, cut through a yew hedge, a little bit shabby, taking me down but when I descend it, the street I land into is the one from above. meridians folding up. and the light-bulbs are now in their coppery stage the hum of the city is cut like a string. I stand, against my will, in front of the fence that I dread.

the night seems to have been here forever. the streets closing in. April

Diary Entry of a Well-Meaning Critic

in Hollisters poetry there is a tendency towards the unrhymed this a reflection of an increasingly disorganised mind there also exists a very odd trend making his scribble-downs rhythmically limp and prosody queer also the fact is that although the meddler certainly knows some English as well his syntax is weird but none of these blotches is quite as unsettling as the dim-witted habit of flogging his themes (also the nearly humourless tone) April

On Finding My Scholarship Account Well Padded, While It Should've Stayed Empty for Good
God bless Croatia fair and kind That can't keep too much on her mind, And now and then forgets where to Her money goes, to hearten you. God bless and curse the bungler state That can't control her own estate; But then, I'll make more hay with those Then would the dopes up there, I s'pose. December