“Then, absurdly, I would do all I could to avoid writing”;
I wrote those words down, prosaically.
So this is my reminder, my rote, a remedy,
To outlast the authors of my self-perfidy.
Twice over clean floors, with wax extra sheen;
Listen until your teeming ears bleed
From unfriended auteurs who are set to repeat.
Do not dare read, for that’s validating ballads
Of constant companions who will have you demeaned;
Consider time else-where, it is always for free.
Four times over, wash the windows instead,
Change the blankets again on the bed;
Find reasons for laundry, pour bleach in the sink;
Do not stop and stand back, and do not dare think.
Deadhead the panicles, even though they’ve retreated,
Unsend those invites to relations depleted;
Do all the above Nick, and then be repeated.
There is so much more order in complete self-denial,
Confiscated the papers without any trial;
Stare at a bulb-screen where strangers are paid
To do what we would, with the plans we had made.
The distraction’s summation is laughable;
Atrophied linguistics, this pen’s vertigo.
Yet in eschewing this life to write of snowdrops,
I am an arable farmer who has lost all his crops;
I am a feathered fly-weight without any wins,
An old nobby-trawler, without flatfish or shrimp,
Docked in a port in a Morecambe Bay mist;
An amateur athlete with a permanent limp,
Punch lines divorced from humourists.
Sat in dark rooms, do not turn on the light
If from your best self sad swans would take flight.
These words my tattoo, my final sight;
I opened a pen-case, and started to write.