Is there any sense in

Is there any sense in

Scratching my soul

When I don’t submit

Any of my vain-arsed work

Or try to find a literary agent

Why even bother?

It’s not like I’m about to

Add anything of immense value

To the poetic canon.

Apart from

Willy and the Wonder Kids

Has anybody

Really?

I know that is probably not true

Add your own Wonder Kids

Here…

But it’s not easy to be sure

In an age of self-verification

When more and more people

Want to believe

That whatever they think is true

Is.

The pursuit of individual freedom

Means,

‘To do whatever I want’

Is an actual bonafide right.

Like the pursuit of happiness

As if it is written in stone

Transcribed verbatim

From the word of god.

He might have been a bit of a poet

Back in the day

Which doesn’t make him a truth sayer

More of a law-unto-himself kind of guy

A stickler for rules

(Ask Abraham about Isaac).

Then why do I do it?

Apart from getting high

On good booze

And being loved,

Finishing a piece

Is the closest I ever get

To fully functional

When all the chaos

Both inside and outside of my head

Is subsumed

And for a brief moment

Everything within and without

Is clear.

It doesn’t last long.

Gradually the internal pressure builds

Like a steam valve

Reification

Of a Freudian process

An unconscious

Ego-driven impulse drive

In need of release.

I guess if I keep refuelling

I will carry on

Although there is no such thing

As perpetual motion

One day there will be nothing

In the tank.

Everything will grind to a halt

And I will be dry

Not before time

Some people might say

Not before time.