BLOCKED

Nothing worthy ever tumbled from my troubled mind To stain the dead white sheet with meaning

 No-ones death or flesh or plated food could instil in me a sense of purpose

The urgency which makes writers rob their mothers and eat their young

 

My Pretorian guard of old women who seek me out because they think that I am listening, inanities falling from their mouths like dead leaves

sitting in their own stink and remembering the days before they  became invisible……

 

 I have to find my muse quickly or be remembered as the man who did nothing

 

 But still managed to leave a damp stain on the bedsheets . . . . . . . .

Blocked