It’s a form of self-harm, I think –
To prod and pick for a telling vein
Prominent, thick, and bulging with pain
Each beat in transit, thudding within, is a beg
for chiselled points to dig straight in.
It’s a kind of inkpot, I think –
A source that cannot run dry,
if you dig hard enough,
if the nib is sharp enough.
Skimming the scenery of this innocent space,
Where now each blink creates, not a trace,
or a droplet, but a torrent tide to tour the mind,
the page; a pace, a place, set for the tragic,
the defaced;
the sublime.
Four little lines should be fair to find,
Easy enough in a short little day where
So much talk talks with nothing to say.
Easier said than effortlessly done
But with what’s left of the voice, that has
mediated, educated, risen, reverberated,
shut down this day, and the noisy next
With four little lines of indulgent text.
Authorial Intentions 