Poetry would be the way to do it;
the meaninglessness of existence
couldn’t be covered by a pop song,
less still by a symphony
or harmonies sung in rounds.
A novel about pointlessness would be excruciating;
boredom crystallised on the page.
In paint the work would consist of solid black
or an agitated jumble of clashing coloured blots
and that’s already been done.
No, it has to be a poem
A new collection of poems by Chris Bell, author of A Shelterless Man
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