Monday, 26 October 2009


I poured a better mood
And washed the wreck of
My bird pecked face, laving deeply
Enough to scrape star lit whiskers away.

Taking a tumbler full
Of stronger stuff from its bottle
I set to make a mention of my day,
Though nothing untoward had braved it.

Still there was a duty
To the future, to be cute about
The past, or maybe spit to be spat
At a particular part of it worth the matter.

I sat in a non sequined
Garment unable to find one
Good answer for the page’s rancor,
Though what caused its anger I don’t know:

I had done my dance
For the day, medicated my
Rage with enough cynicism to kiss
It better and whetted a protestor’s appetite,

But still inspiration
Failed my quill, and as the
Deadline of night fast approached
I had to use notes I’d taken yesterday instead.

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