Happy Sunday boys and girls. I spent the day watching period dramas and tidying my poky wee bedroom trying to make space for all the bloody fan mail I've been receiving 'cause of this epic poetry trek I'm doing. AMIRIGHT?! No, I am not.
C'mon guys, we need to find a new place for poetry in society. It's really sad that people just don't give a shit any more. Did you know, when T.S. Eliot was alive, women literally died upon hearing his name? THAT is celebrity gone mad, folks! These days, I bet half of you couldn't name a contemporary poet and then die, could you? You ought to be ashamed.
ANYWAY, day 19!
Someone once said to me,
“Do you think that because you’ve written
so many poems,
you’re actually going to become a poem?”
So I said, “What’s a piece of string
when two people stretch it between themselves,
making a line of it?
The answer is string.”
That person lived in my head
and would occasionally exit
via the mouth
to go about their daily business
of peeling oranges;
of shopping unethically;
of poking their fingers
into freshly baked bread.
I remember the day they asked me
if I’d ever seen an old man eating a Twix.
The thin membrane between life and death
broke over me.
I began weeping.