Erm
When the poet cannot write
the poet should write about it
Wake up in inspiration’s bed and scream
the sour morning breath of inertia away
before she pre-empts, precludes, perforates, panics, prunes and punishes
her thoughts
finding insult in the laughter of her own humour
Is this a challenge of honesty or has she grown weary of it’s lilt?
The jazz now sounds like country;
the semolina now takes like sago;
the cassis now smells like marmite.
Must she analyse it, make a science of it?
Make a stupid list
to feel finished and unfinished
1. Today my words are just words and how depressing it is…
