Poetry from Andrew MacDonald

Faulted news hour

You should pardon it, keep it to the fore—
fronted if mendacious 
a happy grove of fear 
and vicious/delicate if 
But what happens comes too quick 
and not one of us defends it 
a cut-up pose of reels 
fabricants media savvy and 

You should pardon it 
only what's known a 
group work presents—
a token field half-truthed 
not yet factitious, well—baited, 
soft pleasing.

It is not that one should have it 
more than as is 
(pleasant to dream, semblance to reality) 
that mucks about in all what relish 
we it is who are as what stood tall in 
once, if now, not far that cold indiscretion
each talk about wondrous of cause, 
curious in (un)becoming dark enterprises 
neat belonged what
all of us we align of 
steady in the composure 
none of us redoubted. 
So we have it, that transient malaise 
not more but less could encounter 
as when where are is not 
but these we depress from—
fade memories of a dream, 
what happened once 
but could not have.

Slight fade of space 
is memory’s whitewashing— 
an age of grace to grow out on one 
too limited resist it—
it becomes us all, terrifies 
to no measure 
that what happens once outlasts it 
as if in white right pleasure 
to rip through, scandalizing 
upturned emotion conducive 
to pure fact reminiscent 
that dates, times, maneuvers outlasted 
should permeate to frost 
gloss over meet conditions 
love’s alone by its then self 
obfuscated that not that 
should but be as is
this the relishing 
memories conduct us.

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