This is how the old year dies;
a ragged dictator
swinging from the rope
of days and weeks and months
let go in the midst of prayers
in a flood of abuse
before the past can break from its cage.
All the weddings and divorces,
the extravagant moments of fake joy;
all the tabloid exclusives,
the celebrities bugging out in jungles;
all the wars and warriors,
the power and the paranoia;
all the exposes and knicker shots,
the pop queens in rehab;
all the cardboard gangsters,
the politicians and the paparazzi
strangle slowly as the trapdoor opens.
This is how the old year dies.
Waiting in the wings
the new year gathers its cronies,
makes them join hands
over a cup of forgetfulness
for auld lang syne.
Look carefully and quickly
and you’ll see the same old faces,
sly smiles playing on their lips.
This is how the old year dies
and, in new clothes, lives again.