Skip to main content

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.

5 thoughts to “why write”

Leave a Reply

Yes No