Words fall, sticking fast to my feet – pieces of double-sided stickiness.

I try to pull them off, tugging at them.

Fingers, sticking to words, sticking to my feet.

No way of sorting, assembling or synthesising the words into sentences or

any semblance of sense, or senselessness; and seeing

the futility, feeling sensible and sensitive to the

situation – I give

in. Senseless.



Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019


Inspired by Wilfred Owen’s poem, ‘Futility’.


Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images on Pixabay





Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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