What is it with poets?
What is it with poets?
They scraped him off the road
After a fall from a balcony
He couldn’t remember why
But she didn’t say she loved him
When he asked
All he could think of to do
Was to shout
Loud enough to wake the dead
‘What light from yonder window
Did not break’
He thought that he would
Have broken something
At least that was his idea
‘She would come round
If I wound up in a hospital bed’
He gurgled with drunken delight
Fished an unbroken bottle
From a duffle bag
A cigarette
From his top pocket
Slightly bent out of shape
But otherwise a goodly kingsize
To jam between his lips
Swollen a little
Covered in spittle,
He had a cut above one eye
They thought he might cry
But he didn’t
‘I guess I have something to write about now
I knew she was my muse’
They carried him home
Everybody knew where he lived
An old cottage at the end of the lane
Overgrown with Ivy, Passion fruit and vine,
A mat of spiders webs covered the windows
But what a view it had
Over the Downs
Many the time he had sat drinking
With a few of the clowns
Who called themselves artists
And pontificated
‘What is it about humans’ he mumbled
As they dragged him along
‘It is only conscious thought
That sets us apart
There are trillions more bacteria
In our bodies
Than human cells
Tell me who is using who?
When we die the insects win
It is all a matter of waiting
Cicadas can wait for seventeen years
To climb up to the surface
Most humans can’t wait for tomorrow
Everything is over before its begun
Why waste time
Waiting for the penny to drop
When the blood sings’
He promptly fell asleep
A deadweight in their arms
But his door stood open
The light was still on
They propped him up in a chair
Facing the sunrise
Through the french windows,
It would be a glorious day
In the morning
He would appreciate the blinding glare
It would highlight
The dirt and grit in his hair
Perhaps he would remember
Where he had been
What he had done and seen,
Enough to write about it
But then again, perhaps he wouldn’t.