Out of Ink (again)
Working out what comes next.
Dim, dark and bleak, a corner I seek, there to sit and lend
my ears ... in need or in bleed or run to seed, or indeed
none of the above.
A Twisted Sister, ink stained fingers, earrings, and a blissful quantity of skin
to kin, on show.
Taking on things, one breath, one step, one letter at a time,
A doodle, a sip of coffee, a word.
Repeat.
Trying to string together a stanza
And... My biro stutters and ceases to flow.
splutter, mutter, a strangulated whimper emanates from my throat.
I clamp down, grit teeth, turn on the phone and
carefully and correcting the typos as I go
copy in the words thus far trying to catch up to those that,
bereft of ink
leapt fully formed into my mind
before they flee against the tide of noise
and the calling to me of all the internet can offer
ooo! twitter,
when I have words to do, to form into
some semblance of sense and propriety
and cold hard cash
to keep my children fed and clothed and shoed...
oh those tiny
shoes so short lived and expensive, multiples of money more
than those I wear...
and distracted by thoughts of life
I again am losing my way
but writing on, I work it around to
the point of origin. Species. Specious thoughts.
That never quite good enough will I be
So ceasing to care (ha! I care all too much) what others think of me
I love who I wish to
kiss who I may
sing
clothe and disrobe myself as I am paid
performance. Provider of bread and butter, but none I can eat.
But of the words?
The words still flow, drip from my fingers, fill my mind
blissful and kind to me,
comforting against the hedonistic urges that I now chose to go with.
G&T, an it girl. not me, silly,
far too old
for all that.
