What of this scratch

What of this scratch

This restless itch

That renders so much

Possibility

From the subtlety of change

But finds a way

To waste its chance

And rue its loss,

In a wallow of obsession

And pointless self regard.

Awkward phrases

With buttoned down words

And foreshortened reach

Spilled from habit

Or something worse,

Scraping the barely heeled

Wounds

Of a sensitive skin,

With the naive charm

Of a barefoot stumble

Across a pebbled beach.

Such sublime relief

Is fleeting,

And the abrasive rub

Of an incompetent

Is writ large upon this

Dreaming poet’s

Self delusion.

A tickle of hubris

That barely twinges

As it wreaks its

Bloodless damage.

A soft brush

Scouring a naked soul

Creating a dusty

Scattering of pith

That showers and rains

A storm of genteel words

That swirl,

A dance of simple madness,

Falling as if dead skin

At an old man’s feet.

A blizzard,

Whipped across a virgin page,

Punctuated

By the yellowed stain

Of rheumy tears.

Re-imagined

As drops of crimson blood

To emphasise the point,

Sanctify the pain

Of a writer’s own,

Bleak continuum.

Sufferance,

As self justification

Such a blunt tool,

Yet still, it adds

A hint of truth.

A veneer of polish,

A lyrical disguise,

To the poetic ramblings

And harmless diatribe

Of a practiced fool

And artless scribe.