what's with these juicy bits?
got talking to a cashier at a supermarket
because i wanted cash-back
rather than using the automated till,
she was part of a book club,
her grandchildren, something something,
oh yeah, into tudor english,
prope'h east ender but more into
o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing
the butcher's expression, tudor english...
'so what do you do?
finish work early? work in
a slaughterhouse of mammon
and his slot machines?'
'i've only just begun, i'm an
adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden,
i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth
of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too!
i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere,
yes, had to look for a publisher on the continent.'
you know, all that jazz & bass talk,
when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day,
and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint
on someone, somewhere else, far far away,
rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified
stranger passing en route on a shopping spree;
so don't up your game thinking writing is
a mind game of ups and ups...
it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't
pay out bundles of Ferraris or ******...
there ain't not glamour in it...
you only get recognition in terms of the numbers
doing it after you're dead...
because it looks easy, because it looks like
a granny in an armchair...
what's that, 30 poems in and finito -
carpe diem hasta la vista baby?
strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my
teeth being punched out to see where this is going;
juicy bits my ***.
