I slog a piddly lap of Brockwell Park
and Jabber-jog my way back up the hill
resolve to run again within a week.

Later on I watch a Bourne film
on the telly and humbly assume
that I’m just like the first one to be killed,

the one who’s first to burst into the room
all hup-hup-hup, rookie adrenalin,
my trigger finger going CRACK, not BOOM,

before the same thing happens to my spine.
But hey, when they make films about poets
they make them about lives other than mine—

some mental illness, boozy sex and shit,
rather than bottle feeding and wasting
my few spare minutes on the internet,

before the clock’s eleventh hour goes ding
and I realise that I’ve written nothing yet.
Perhaps, if like the bards, I had to sing

for my dinner, I wouldn’t be this fat.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 07, 2012 @ 00:40:13

    When they make your biopic, long after you are dead, they will probably cut out the boring bits and they will doubtless choose a young athletic actor not unlike Matt Damon to play the part of the famous dark brooding poet from Slough. 🙂


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