Tuesday 18 October 2011

UNPUBLISHED SYMPHONY

accidentally another epic is written.
10
pages or more
one
drunk 
night/loneliness was fuel then/i had scotch and an ignored TV.
had
fire
and burning purpose.

i call it Writer
and
imagine
it
will right the world.

the glass cracks when i pack the ice in/no room left
for
razor
thin
citrus slice or carbonated mixer/try anyway/watch the meniscus burst from 2 inches away.

(these days i wake with ice anxiety filling
the
trays in the sink
before
breakfast
every morning/ice there for the pm and evening.)

so wrote an epic/called it Writer.
wrote a pome about it/called it Unpublished Symphony.
neither
are
finished
cos
i am busy lining up small lamps to light the small drinks
and
moving
dead
speakers into different dusty corners/alone/drunk/deep in creating/deep
in
a
mistake/writers cocoon walls full of cracks he wont see.
  
to recap;
writer in a dark room low lamps dusty books opens up vacuum to

friendly air.

(please be friendly air/pains living but i am exhausted now) 

Unpublished Symphony and Writer -
theyre
made
up
of
boots like these/its England! - inside everyone’s head theyre living an imported sitcom.

writer –
he
lives . . . elsewhere/land of boots and ice and drink and true-lie pens.

writer trying to live here for now/has professional help/doesnt
want 
to 
say 
goodbye to anything/anyone
at
all.

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