Anybody who has read much of what I write (hopefully both of you) will be familiar with my struggles to understand poetry. To understand how it differs from prose, to understand what is good, what is bad.

I’m really not getting anywhere with that project, but I stumbled upon something here, referring to paper (the stuff we used to write upon) and that somehow started me on something that became a short poem about a poem (any poem) …. but which, now that I look at it, might just as easily be about any expressed thought.

To explain any further would be to undermine the very notion of what I think poetry, and indeed art itself should be about.

In the end I still don’t know if it says anything or if it is just more little words, neatly lined up in a row.

And it’s probably just more garbage that would assist only (and if only a little bit) to further rape the rainforests of the Amazon, if it were ever to find its way onto a printed page.

***

Pen on paper, thin
Lighter than air
Here and there
A meaning within
Weighing less
Than ink
But is yet
My scream
My dream. To think, to dare
To not forget
What is not written cannot be read
What is not heard has not been said
So let it be
That you might see, too
Perhaps at night
Before the sun
One brief moment of light
Creeping through
Providing sight
When there was none

***

I find myself in a lot of discussions about mental health, depression, suicidal thoughts, and so on. I make no claim of expertise in the matter.

But Stoner via Katie brought up the idea of people saying (or just thinking) that ‘it’s all in your head’, and pointing (I think) to the fact that this must be about the most useless piece of psychiatric advise possible.

Well, of course it’s in my head, you moron. If you break your big toe do I reassure you with the message, “don’t worry, it’s all in your foot”?

“It’s all in my head, you say??? Thank Christ for that. I was worried that it might be in my bum somewhere.”

Anyway. Whatever. I’m just jotting something down for the sake of jotting something down. As usual.

***

I’m sorry that I’m needy
But I’m feelin’ kinda seedy
I think I might be better off in bed
You think I’m being lazy
But I’m going fucking crazy
And every day just fills me full of dread
I am taking all these pills
I don’t take them for the thrills
They’re to kill off all the demons in my head
I wish they’d go away
But I think they’re here to stay
So I think I might just kill myself instead.

***

Linda, today suggested a stream of consciousness concentrating on the word ‘rope’. My own consciousness is hardly a stream these days – more like a puddle. A stream would imply some sort of direction which, in my case, would be towards dark places. A muddy puddle, perhaps. But more like a dark void.

But that’s enough of me. How’s everyone else feeling today?

***

I’ve had a go at life
And life just couldn’t cope
We had a go at sex and drugs
But there was insufficient dope
No chance of a redemption
(I’ve spoken to the Pope)
No point in me just hanging ‘round
When all I do is mope
I’ve a proposal for the devil
I think we might elope
I guess I’ll go and hang myself
Do I have sufficient rope?

***

I wrote a brief response to the doggie people and realised, upon stumbling across it again (somebody actually liked it!) how poorly worked it was and thought, to feel a little less dumb, I should make some basic corrections.

It still doesn’t really work, but it is a post, and I’m struggling to post anything at all at present.

***

Fingers playing
Under the sheets
Minds entwined
Where love greets
Itself. With skin
Heartbeats within
Tap out a tune. That soon
Becomes a melody
For you and me
Perfectly matched
But have barely scratched
With those fingers
What lingers
Beneath the surface

***