I’m running low on twee profundities
to feed to the iambic metronome.
I wait for searing lines to come to me

while shacked up in the warm strictures of home.
In many ways, these are my greatest days,
yet all that you get is this lousy poem.

Stick with the dead ones, Plath or Hemingway,
they’re tried and tested, death has guaranteed
that their life’s pains will console you today

far more than aimless, happy types like me.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    May 20, 2012 @ 01:09:13

    Don’t worry… when you are dead and time has passed, English literature students will search for hours and hours to find the hidden truth within you poetry. 🙂


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