Writer’s block
He starts at five o clock,
a soaking wet rosy fingered
dawn has touched the sky
and he is reading old letters
to dead friends, memories to expand
and fill his book of lists called BLOCKS.
He has covered Italy, Holland
and Switzerland by armchair.
He is only a writer
when he is writing
and all he has written today
are reminders to himself
to find stories.
He estimates he has written
fifteen hundred words,
a lot for a novel,
if it had been a novel,
which it isn’t,
it’s a list.
If anyone should show an interest,
the meaning ceases to exist
and he is reduced to two seasons, Then and Now.
The Future is gone and taken
the best part of him.
He remembers, with a friend,
visiting Michael and a girl was
on his bed, dressed in just a slip
shiny, turquoise, blue-green,
They left quickly and walked.
There were snow flakes in the air
and they put their coat collars up
with nothing much to say
to each other.
Their heads were still in Michael’s room
with minds full of blue-green thoughts.
Such are the commonplace reminders
For his book of lists called BLOCKS
Assembly day dreaming
What she wants is the judgement of god
to say that she’s beautiful
and that she is equal
to the square that is her dad.
God wears a dress
and that makes her think
that he’ll side with her mum.
Who forgets the pull of the moon,
who believes feelings don’t count
until the first frost is over
and the sweetness is crushed,
and only tough old skin has a right to love.
Girls’ voices don’t break.
Just crack a little with
the weight of expectation.
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