Sunday, 31 January 2010


In infinite afternoon minutes
of wintry contemplation
structures reveal themselves in
glimpses of cohesive thought

There is an art to this:
writing on a trembling, speeding
Knees crammed against plastic
hungry and forlorn
w/ a keen sense of senselessness
I'll go home and gaze at Jennifer
on TV and maybe remember
fumbling sexual
encounters of a quiet, pained
As I gaze at prosaic and gorgeous
actresses in stupefying sitcoms
and giggle mindlessly
I left my novel at work
along with most of
my sensibilities and
I can't fucking write
on this cramped juddering bus
I chose to sit downstairs
near attractive women
Sit near them but
never look at them
Today I got sucked into the
political whirlpool of
drinking tea at work
and fuck explaining what that
even means
I must resemble an
insane hermit
scribbling in this fucking

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