Other than that it was a quiet day at home.

Other than that it was a quiet day at home.

There is nothing to gain

It is a fool's bargain

Write a poem

And feel better about it

Which is never true.

Don’t write one

Feel worse.

There is no escape in verse

It is a rat trap

Full of sour sweat and chip fat.

And anyway

If I was a poet

I wouldn't write ‘and’ so often

The old guys didn’t.

They were dipped in stipends

Dangled by the toes

Over a font

Full of whispered promises

And songs of praise

All they ever did was

Recycle the classics.

How about that for

Inverted snobbery

The working class

Have a way with bitter

Language

Harbouring their guilt

Beneath a scowl.

I can sneer with the best of them

I hang it in front

Of the mirror

And practice

Which is as true

As anything

Not least the waste of another page

Full of drivel

Dressed up as poetry

Wth nowhere to go

When I don’t know

The truth of it.

If you say it is

I must defer

To your poor judgement

Or finer taste

You choose.

Nobody reads it

Or wants to

Very much

The more they hate it

The more they have an opinion

And say they could write

If they wanted to.

It is just the idiots who do

Just to be chastised.

There is no bigger idiot

Than those who love themselves

The sensitive narcissist.

And yet

(Another and)

We must love ourselves

Before we can truly

Love others.

A double-bind.

There is a poem in that

Somewhere.

Find me a poet

They fall out of the trees

In Regent’s Park.

Bind me in wire

It is in my blood

Wound through the guts of me

And will rip me to shreds

If I try to tear it out.