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What I do
This space right here
Is yet to be filled
It could contain a swathe of fury
Or a simple collection of guttural squelches.
Maybe I’ll intersperse political dogma
Within beautiful descriptions
Of tree lined avenues in Bolivia.
There’s a chance that I’ll resort to
Filth and swearing,
Unpleasant bile and
Fart gags.
Blow off.
Or maybe I’ll just spend my time
Pontificating about the nature of life:
It’s just a big old onion.
Whatever emerges,
I’ll be sure to let you know
Within the hour.
I write poems: some of them are good, some of them are not. All of them are written quickly and spontaneously. Many of them are my way of understanding and sometimes exorcising a difficult emotion. Some are an attempt to understand a world that baffles, delights and scares the living bejeezus out of me. And some are about my dead dog's shitting habits. They were written when she was alive. Would be weird to write about posthumous shitting.
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