The pen in my clouded head
has run out of its blue-black ink.
There is nowhere to run to avoid
the redbrick, low bridge now,
so I shall have to crawl upon
my miserable face to find another
way to write the lifescape of this
threatening, arsed up mediocrity
I often find myself the agent of!
The muse visited me for so long
and now, during this struggle along
this flattened field called mind, I find a
riverbed, dried up, despite the torrent
of chaotic sounds and visions going on
around about it. Could there not be more
ink somewhere in this cephalopod brain,
dying to be weaved into words wonderful
or colourful expletives, profane?
Aye! Come again sweetlipped words….
I am your playmate who desires your
slipstream of wildness to wow me now!