Thursday 26 November 2009

#98 - 8 Minutes In The Life Of A Poet

I'm exhausted.
I've acquired a sort of palsied rocking motion.

Any desire to create, wrung out of me.
I feel like I've stood wanking
on a plinth for fifteen hours

expecting approval.
I want some broth. A hot bath.
A break from line breaks.

Two more.
Two more.


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