I sit with my bambinos and my
tea and my Radiohead and I chew
and swill and listen to the whine
and clatter of the wind in the roof.
I plant my feet and my head and
try to make myself
right.
write.
I want the puns of old, my jaunt
-y tossing wordplay and my will
-ingness to try things and to may
-be write something not so-so stilt
-ed and cold.
I wish to be emptied
of synthetic
Vitamin A and the backlog of words
which bounce rogue-fireworklike
through the tight tunnels of my brain but
fizzle when they reach my fingers and leave
me – hands stuck-paused inches from keys –
spitting damp paper and sulphur.
I am all words these days
they are just the wrong
ones.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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1 comment:
I know how this feels, only too well. Urgh.
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