The pages are piling up
A deformed heap in the corner
Half-written poems,
Unfinished sentences
Dead-end stories.
I’m down to the fourth pack of cigs
and the third bottle of whisky is on its way.
Bear in mind,
before I came here,
I was out there.
Listening to birds chirp,
wind on my bald head.
Sun on my skin,
Sand in my feet.
I rummaged through the Masters’ works…
I burnt incense…
Clapped my hands to a drum’s beat…
and danced round the fire in the nude under a full moon
And still… nothing has ‘come’ to me,
No inspiration as yet.
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