The Instep and The Ankle

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!

On Questioning

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.