Sunday, 8 December 2013

Sorting Mail

I got home 6.30 and by around eight I had written a bad but full first draught of a poem. The writing of it felt like satisfying the craving to sniff plant fertilizer when one has a predisposition to terrible drug-addiction. Like the satisfaction of resolving to let a pencil-sketch alone. Like satisfying urination; defecation; ejaculation. Completing it, I felt as if I was listening to the music with the best groove, tasting the food of the divine, walking in the Scottish countryside - but all, just for one fleeting, piqued moment, before I came crashing back down to earth. Back down to debt, back down to life or death responsibilities, back down to absolute failure as a writer.
That fleeting second of orgasmic self-confidence made it all worthwhile, forever - made all the better by the knowledge that it never would come again in such a powerful ecstatic surge. That it was gone forever and it left a smile imprinted on my heart, alongside my family.

The Night Shift Epiphany.

I am on the night shift,
 With a pleasant fellow called Dudley,
Who can't really hear me.

 Dudley can't hear me,
 But he is so much more than that -
 Told to tap him on the shoulder,
 If the fire alarm goes off,
He doesn't need me to.

 I'm not sure,
 How to communicate,
 As I don't sign
 And he does,
 Little lip-reading,
 So I tap him, 
Smile and mouth;
 "YOU OK?"
 Of course.

 He smiles,
A light in his,
Then rolls,
 And nods.

 I'm not sure,
 If he's rolling his eyes at me,
 Or as a gesture,
 Of shared contempt,
 Perhaps for the task,
 In which we are currently,

 I resolve,
To write a letter,
 Explaining what,
 A Freak,
 He stands next to,
At 4 am,
 In the factory morning,
In the parallel queue,
Explaining about me,
The one tapping him,
 On the elbow,
 And grinning,
While sorting mail,
At 4 am,
Telling him,
I am a writer.

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