Wednesday, 9 May 2018

It has been a while. I’m out of practice!

I’m unfit.
I’ve not been taking poetry jogs in the local park
Exercising my adverbs, stretching my similies
So I’m out of practice see.

And here’s me been writing songs and rhymes
Since time immemorial
And inclined to define my poet status by my output...
... and recently that has been
Zilch
Nothing, nada
Zip, zilch and bugger all.

I feel flabby, with my biro in my hand
It’s a weight I can’t lift straight
So I’m stumbling around
Pen in hand
With ideas over my head.
But somewhere between air and pen the idea turns to lead
And I get all self conscious
Trying to put it down

It goes down awkward
And fumbled
And won’t leave the ground
Cos I’m unfit.

I need a regime
I need...
...
Tongue twisting skipping ropes
Tongue twisting skipping ropes
Tongue twisting skipping ropes
Tongue twisting skipping ropes
I need a regime.

I need metaphorical yoga to align my imaginative chi
Stretch my thoughts, relax my mind
Focus on being me.

I need a regime
Where I clean up my act
Make space to get race fit
Where verb follows preposition
And grammar rules flow fluid
And beautiful double negatives
Implode into implied meanings
As often as they’re not doing nothing...

There’s risks with a regime
(Just look at North Korea)
All the literative sports scheming
Could give me verbal diorreah
And carries the risk of injury, no?
Strained wrists strain metaphors
And pulled punches pull nothing

But the most fearsome risk in all of this
What every verbal sportsman fears...
No one imagines winning gold
To the sound of no ones cheers.

HEADLINE:
Poet stretchered off-stage, clutching tongue, to the sound of disinterested chatter
(Poet later reveals he’s done and will become cynical and fatter)
He’ll be sneering in his punditry when no one asks for comment
A bitter twisted litrovert trapped in rhyme free torment...

... I need a regime.
For the risks of injury from trying can’t be greater than the risks of not.
What was the point of all those boxes of filled notebooks
The investment I’ve made in coffee shop coffees
All the biros that ran out along the way!!?
I have to honour their sacrifice with the things I have to say
Or I’ll go crazy...
... and we’re not talking the bitter litrovert crazy we are talking
Full on, David Ike
Bat shit.

I’ll stop recycling cos... what’s the point
I’ll covet sports cars and lionise soldiers

I’ll believe everything I’m told and never have an opinion
For fear I might be wrong
I’ll sing along to the top ten songs and won’t complain
They all sound the same and always say nothing
I’ll read all the shit on my Facebook feed while stuffing my face with blueberry muffins
I’ll get a telly bigger than my house and all my exercise will come from Netflix marathons (which is a genuine sport as I’ll be doing it in my tracksuit bottoms)
I’ll be surrounded by empty takeaways, overflowing ashtrays, job lots of tat from eBay to satisfy cravings for collectables
All unopened in their boxes till every room I have is full and I have to sleep in the hall
Embarrassed to have anyone round
Till in all my possessions I finally drown in a tempest of consumables.

... and you don’t want that...

...

I think I need a regime...
I need to create output to allay the constant input
I need to exorcise with textual exercise the barrage of bullshit that besets us
And by my efforts I’ll create such a finely toned and honed body of work
And when my flabby pen works
Out my toneless thoughts, indiscriminate ideas and rudimentary reactions
Into something to adequately reflect reality
I’ll be able to face myself in the mirror and admire
The results of a regime.

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