writing? i never write out of
a conviction -
   let alone a desire -
what comes along,
  comes along -
ambitious? hardly,
crude? well,
   certainly:
   profanity?
   only invoked
as a way to avoid
(a) a writer's block &
(b) as a manner
   of elevated conjunction:
since it's easier
to sometimes "interrupt"
yourself with something
more than just
an and.
at this present moment?
conjuring up a recipe,
pasta, with courgette
and shrimps...
     akin to the memory
of my first night in paris,
the italian girl who spoke
french and managed
to keep my lack of french
hidden...
   running with
a few people eyes
glittering, aiming at the eiffel
tower, drunk...
     yep...
     the 3 ducks boutique hostel,
summer of 2005, or 2006...
a century ago it now seems...
   and then the italian girl
who said: courgette goes ****
fine with the pasta...
    well, all that, but now?
everything: minus the shrimps.
evidently not everything
written goes down smoothly
as ice-cream,
     sometimes there's the grit
of fibre, undigestable pieces,
like this (i find) -
  peppered with excesses of
annoying punctuation.
          never mind -
the recipe is in my head,
   and so it will be said:
  i've had courgette & shrimp pasta,
with juice from a lemon,
   and a chilli.
        prior, though:
well...
         (... = cliff-hanger pause)
article in the style magazine,
those warm wild night,
concerning? summer romance...
filled with invitations for
a shared remembering
   akin to then parthenon -
well...
      it can be spotted,
writers, novelists, pencil pushers,
chicken scratchers,
     labourers of words -
not enough, is it?
    always, it would seem,
   seeking the spark of poetry:
and how relieved they are
in those moments,
   i'm guessing:
  more relieved than actually
having completed the brick's
weight-worth of a book...
you can see a sudden twist
in the "plot" almost immediately:
first the routine script,
the conventional tongue
rattling for what sometimes
seems forever...
   and then somethin akin to
olivia laing's ...made as
                         loose-limbed
as a mermaid by the long
summer's release.
  me? i laugh at myself -
know all too well,
   that i write like a lumberjack,
tree here? chop chop...
tree gone, just another
piece of empty space,
   that is neutral with regards
as to whether it ought to
be filled, or simply left blank,
or with a childish prank,
made into a paper aeroplane.