Tuesday, 2 February 2010

No name #1.

You're so half-arsed
with your half-rhymes;
why can't you be like Wordsworth
half the time?
Consistency is made
through being consistent,
my boy.

Your hackneyed phrases
and your leant-on words
do you no favours,
but neither does using
the unfamiliar.

You misread,
so you mis-write;
wake up!
You're losing sight.
How can something so familiar
become so alien
with time?

You start
and soon don't know when to stop.
The clock won't do you any favours.
You begin to tire of this train of thought;
to use a metaphor:
its wheels are shaking with loose bolts.

I might write you soon,

P.S. Give my regards to all your
dead brothers and sisters,
and all the ones that will never
receive life,
and all the ones that wait for
well-deserved light.

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