In the bureaucracy of religion
There are quotas:
These are limits for fishing,
Boundaries for trawling
Through interminable stories
Looking for the big catch,
The quote to bolster,
Bludgeoning resistances
To particular points of view.
The quota of quotes
That are quoted as moats
Around the castles
Of important reputation,
Are they now filled?
How now to fill the nets
To satisfy the hoovering ships
Of industrialised academia?
Is there nobody I can quote but me,
Nobody I can gather to justify
My sole offence,
The offending record of a soul
Defending the fending off
Of pain inflicted by a broken mart?
Quotation marks,
The double comma’s flight
Of fancy above the commas’
Ordinary lines of action.
The extra ‘m’ that wakes the comas
With a startled shout of insight,
“Let sleeping dogs lie”,
Until their shown estimate,
Quotation, of themselves
Becomes accepted as their own,
Ibid “all glory, laud and honour”,
Returns them safely home.

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