UNPUBLISHED SYMPHONY

accidentally another epic is written.

10

pages or more

one

drunk 

night/loneliness was fuel then/i had scotch and an ignored TV.

i 

had

fire

and burning purpose.

i call it Writer

and

imagine

it

will right the world.

the glass cracks when i pack the ice in/no room left

for

razor

thin

citrus slice or carbonated mixer/try anyway/watch the meniscus burst from 2 inches away.

(these days i wake with ice anxiety filling

the

trays in the sink

before

breakfast

every morning/ice there for the pm and evening.)

so wrote an epic/called it Writer.

wrote a pome about it/called it Unpublished Symphony.

neither

are

finished

cos

i am busy lining up small lamps to light the small drinks

and

moving

dead

speakers into different dusty corners/alone/drunk/deep in creating/deep

in

a

mistake/writers cocoon walls full of cracks he wont see.

  

to recap;

writer in a dark room low lamps dusty books opens up vacuum to

friendly air.

(please be friendly air/pains living but i am exhausted now) 

Unpublished Symphony and Writer -

theyre

made

up

of

boots like these/its England! - inside everyone’s head theyre living an imported sitcom.

writer –

he

lives . . . elsewhere/land of boots and ice and drink and true-lie pens.

writer trying to live here for now/has professional help/doesnt

want 

to 

say 

goodbye to anything/anyone

at

all.