I'm waiting for inspiration and other things to strike,
Wondering if the hot iron
Will hurt much,
With the little part of my mind tossing clichés
Around in my head like…
Like… a big swirly thing…
Frantic scribbling given way to calm, and purpose,
And wondering why dead-
-lines are so-called. I mean…
Dead… dead? Dead?
That's a bit harsh, isn't it?
On the one hand, the university looks bad
If a degree is as easy as a fresher
On a week-long bender,
—But were it the reverse instead
It might indicate poor selection, and
Talking of elections
—Which we almost were—
It would look worse
Were it publicised
That reform of student funding
Had seen Grant…
And Sarah, and Tom…
And all the rest…
Join the ranks of those who fill
The shallow graves of suicides.
Well anyway…
For me to write, to write of writing, seems a fraud,
A sham of composition-
A word which, I am reminded, is not
Many letters away from compost,
Which everything becomes in time, after all.
So what's in a name, or a piece of paper?
But I digress…
Weren't we talking about poetry?