I wash my hands of all responsibility

the presumed death of is

I wash my hands of all responsibility

Edited – 11th December 2020


When mourning passes into eve

and all that was is is was,

all that was his is was,

all that is is ruins of is and was

Annan crawls out from beneath his heavy brow,

surveys his expansive diminished estate,

sees nothing, just God’s strange shadows,

charred angles of redacted flesh

flashed into the rising rungs of dust,

looks down at his own red rinsed hands,

marvels at death’s architecture

framed in such a wondrous structure.


Satisfied, he folds himself back into slumber.


© Bhi 2023
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Fun word play. Reminds me of the famous Bill Clinton line; “It depends on what the meaning of the word is is.”


I had all sorts of ideas about what you have written here, which I enjoyed, but didn’t grasp until I read your reply to “storm”. It’s strange I have no god, but find the devil easy to see. Many others too do that I have found. But then again I’ve an obsession with Robert Johnson and the crossroads. “and all that was is is was, all that was his is was,” loved that. You’ve certainly got peoples underwear spinning with “Annan”. Me too. Unless it’s the river. Whatever it invoked something to me slightly sinister. I enjoyed the word play… Read more »

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