is it

hell to be

here however

long there is;


the clutter, the

silence of this

room & nothing

more & no-one

comes, to love,

to break my balls & me stuck

in this scene, the same dead

end: desk, a dis-

used push-

chair, extension

lead, books, lamp,

photographs, computer;

wide-fingered spiders

hold the rafters. i


wait 10 years

before I lift my pen,

oh. i reckon.


an eternity resides within

this room & if I live that long

I’ll stack my poem

from the floor to the ceiling.


you wouldn’t want to read it.

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