There are no great first lines

There are no great first lines

Not until after the third drink

When the floor is littered with paper

Crumpled in disgust

Thrown wildly

Underarm

Overarm

Blindly

Lobbed

Tossed

Hoisted

Flung

Toward the basket

In the corner

Full to overflowing

With half-finished sentences

Exclamation marks

With an air of accusation

Perfectly formed

Line after line unto

The end of each page

After that third drink

A first line

Can be as far as he gets

Afraid to go further

Afraid to lose the rhythm

He pauses

Sitting for hours

Frozen in mid-flow

Sometimes a word will escape

It can feel

As smooth as a fifteen-year-old scotch

He has plenty of experience

In savouring flavour

Tasting every letter

Licking his lips

As they swirl onto the page

Spitting out the bones

Of a story

Firing them

(Silver bullets kill monsters)

Watching them fall

To see how they land

At first he was excited

Exalted

By how they sounded

All together

In progression

(in the beginning, was the word)

Then he grew fearful

Of losing the gist

In the shake-up

Nothing is ever easy

Even when he thought it might be

There was a cost

He thought

He was willing to pay

But lately

He has been running on empty

There comes a time

When even the whisky

Runs out

And when the well is dry

He can’t find the words

To grasp

The significance

Of his thirst.