why write

The dog said, Look,

you should leave;

I stood my ground,

but secretly agreed.

 

The nurse: I understand

 how you feel…

a bit of a prick, but

…keep still.

 

And the cop: The facts

don’t add up. I said, That’s

too bad. Have you questioned

the dog? He said, Yes.

 

The med said, What the fuck!

Let it go.

I said, What? How?

She said, I don’t fucking know!

 

So I saw this therapist

& he says, What kind of dog was it?

I want concrete facts,

not abstracts!

 

Pit Bull.

                        What colour?

It was dark.

                        Now we’re getting somewhere!

Where? (My question’s rhetorical).

 

So I saw this other therapist & she says:

 

Write these poems: your mother’s death

alone in the flat; the guilt

you felt; regret: the friend

that swung, inches

off the ground; the ones

that did not come – Seven/Eleven/

One/Nine/Seven/One – all of them.

You remember that.

 

You were 7.

 

I said, I prefer to stay clean,

feel what I feel & (or but),

keep my verses lean  –

the concentration of the mind’s images:

 

the words

come out terse,

rhyme sometimes

because I’m

jerking off the jagged bits I’ve

bottled up.

 

Yes, yes! (she says)That’s so fucking good!

Don’t stop.

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5 thoughts on “why write”

  1. I can only say, as the last verse does!!
    Yes, yes! (she says)That’s so fucking good!
    Don’t stop.

    Wonderful bit of sharp-teethed reverie!
    Well-worth the price of admission

  2. I can only say, as the last verse does!!
    Yes, yes! (she says)That’s so fucking good!
    Don’t stop.

    Wonderful bit of sharp-teethed reverie!

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