Thursday, May 14, 2009

[Poet] And go gets it

And go gets it
'Cept I don't.
I never do.

I begin
or pre-begin
or think
and muse.

But I do not do.

At least, I didn't do.

I always tried at first.
Always pushed and cajoled
hoped and cried
that I would finish.

But all dissolved to boredom.
To eeking and tweaking,
and hunting and fixing mistakes.
To dull dull dull,
the monolith grew.

Then I gained sophist
and saw the rolling story played
at school, at uni, at work,
of the repeated descent;
from lofty thinking mountain
to miserable dank undergrowth,
vast swallowing of the mountain hope.

But I am not repressed. I,
my creativity,
rebounds each time.
A quake, volcano rises,
dank foothills thrown to sky.


My wife suggests self-loathing, the
source from which the lava flows.
A reaction to familiarity,
and familiarity, self.

Do I greyly, merely
chase the new,
mesmerised by greener grass?
A fakery,
chasing foreign winds?

An inner, bitter remnant
suggests I quit.
Give up! And slide to mediocrity.
Sod the world, and hate it

I regard it as a clam regards the grit,
I will not yield.
If indeed, that is the choice.

Dare I dream?
Even if the dreams are worthless
in others' eyes?

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