brittany

another one of these poets who 

can't begin or continue,

who try to swim through the fire

of something they don't

yet

understand.

but I continue and I'm burning

and it's what's been 

chosen for me

as a way to 

divide the light from

the dark.

it's been pacing the floors,

2 bottles down with Stravinsky on high

or watching the spiders on the wall,

feeding only long enough

to survive

and then I wait,

think for a while and 

watch

as the words skitter across the page.

there is always something

not far

from behind that allows

me to continue,

and always a bottle waiting

for me to begin

momento

on a cold and
bitter
night
comes a
poet with the
fire
of a thousand
golden chariots
and he is the
writer,
the true writer
of the night
as the others
create
nothing.

"good luck in love" she said...

this bottle of wine is almost done
and now I can remember why I drink,
why I write

but this is where there is no love to be had,
no flower of chance,
no light,
no love

just the emptiness of
another bitter lonely
night.

I'm at the edge and
now my words have run as dry
as my spirit.

but there is nothing more to be said,
I've wasted my romantic
reverie on a woman who is taken
and I've have mused
beyond what is fair

I am sad like a dead angel.

I only wish for love in my
purest of intentions...

as for van gogh,
he cut of his ear and
painted for it.
then found love in his art.
(as for the other type of love,
it never arrived...)

but this bottle of wine, my only friend,
is now done
and now waits another.

but where there is no love,
no woman,
no chance,
there is a bottle
waiting
and another
after that.

who could want anything more then that.

DH lawrence

he lay on his bed and he was a great

novelist, poet and short story

writer.

visitors were often told that it was

his "rest period"

and were sent

away.

he was visited by a woman

who was a short story story writer and

a novelist.

the woman wrote about her visit

to him

in a short story.

she said that he treated her

unkindly,

seemed ungrateful for her

visit.

that maybe he was

not so great

after all.

in her story 

she wrote that

"he was a very bitter

man."

he later died and

the women's short story

was published.

he was D.H. Lawrence

and she has

rightfully

been long

forgotten.

vultures seldom are blessed with

immortality.

fuck it

I can't do it anymore, any of it, I'm turning in my

shit in at last, it's what THEY'VE

have been waiting for...

now they can dance in the street

with their sunflower blondes

and their envy can turn gentle:

"yeah, man, I gotta admit, he could write a

bit of good shit back in the day..."

it's been over a week and I haven't written a

decent line, and writing was never difficult

for me before.

I walk across the room, catch a look at

myself in the mirror:

how long did you think

you'd be able to play with words?

everything ends eventually so

stop your whining.

damn, I've never had a problem with writing before.

24 now. what will I do now?

become a paramedic?

who would of ever thought you'd last this long

anyway?

It's the first hot night of summer, one

bottle of wine is now gone as the laptop plays

gloomy blue's music from 1924.

I will say one thing, however, it's nice here now

even with everything else gone wrong, not to be

arguing with a woman tonight.

she's gone off somewhere

and this 

poem which never really got started

is now done and

the second bottle of wine is waiting

for me.

now, there's an art I can still

handle...