"It's as if I was never really here: a shadow in a haunted house. Do I reflect my new status in the now o-so-mundane bio note as if a part of me has actually died? 'Ex-editor, war wounded, freshly deceased.' I wear my trousers creased, not rolled. Vale, everyone: poets, proles untold. Never bitter, more like a sack of rolled oats: chafed, bruised, burnt, churned through & dry as the western slopes and plains or a chianti. I'm as dry as the bar half an hour after your magazine launch has commenced: a plastic cup containing someone's spit, half a profiterole. Vale, all of you: poets, souls & Microsoft Word as well, especially its tab function, yea. Goodbye to hours of pointless formatting, days spent waiting for a reply to an inquiry about the kerning, or an ampersand. Do I dare delete a space where a reader might pause? Do I what. The precious preciousness of poets fighting over prestige in a world where monkeys reign & no-one gives a flying vale about villanelles. My eyes roll backwards in my head at the idea of pantoums; & limericks are pure, living hell. Vale, all of you: meter, rhyme, fonts as well. Though I would not even bother to contact me, if I were you, spare a thought for what even the smallest offering by way of appreciation might do for my replacement's self-esteem (& grant me a small indulgence before I expire: stay lame. Because when you're gone, not one minute will the rest of us spend divining the meaning of your amateur hobbyist's musings on your behalf, yea, here in the wonderful boredom of the fold, where the same old sucks churn out stuff to pollute & mould. So vale, y'all! Poets, proles untold. Hope you die before it gets old."