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.
Who can't really hear me.
Dudley can't hear me,
But he is so much more than that -
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.
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?"
Theatrically,
Of course.
He smiles,
A light in his,
A light in his,
Then rolls,
His,
Eyes,
His,
Eyes,
And nods.
I'm not sure,
If he's rolling his eyes at me,
Or as a gesture,
Of shared contempt,
Of shared contempt,
Perhaps for the task,
In which we are currently,
Engaged.
In which we are currently,
Engaged.
I resolve,
To write a letter,
To write a letter,
Explaining what,
A Freak,
He stands next to,
At 4 am,
In the factory morning,
In the parallel queue,
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.
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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