Poem

how they make poets

take 1 awkward

bastard child

then fill their head

with an intricate mess

of ponderings

of mainly men - long dead

until they positively oggle

at what was once

pretentious twaddle.






then give this bastard

child a pen

or better still

a feathered

 quill

add misery

so they cure themselves

witless

thus pleasing an elite

& boring everyone else

shitless

... 








(author nodes... a touch tongue-in-cheek but too much truth too)

consciously vague

it trickles

in drips

of drops

of dribble

whilst always

just missing

the tip of the tongue.





it speaks

with no language

blank pages

when written

where once

there was music

old songs are unsung.





but sometimes

in places

in daylight

awakened

yes briefly

a twinkle

a glimmer of inkle.





yet never

specifics

lest

what it all means

i'm trying

to remember

last night's dream

...