Prompt Response
So Slippy
The body of language
Unkept, unsaved, unlearnt — those words, so slippy, I, so sloppy… mess — mess around the edge of it, the white — the great white vast open of it; of line, each one ready, waiting for the paper to get heavy —
No rest, no, no rest, no task with a tick, none, no tick, not today, none, no “done,” feeling, not today, no,…not today, not here, not on my page or in my cage made of bone, just the struggle to think, to write, to connect to something…
Nothing new left, nothing new comes out, only the same, just the same, the same, same old frustration on a journey to endlessness, to circles that turn the ordinary into dull reminders of yesterday's words, shaped in the form of a poem —
Same old poem…never satisfied with what was writ, with what there is, always needing more, the feeling never learns to be enough, never learns to be something else, never takes comfort in its form.
It is going away, going elsewhere, into a dark room made of paper, in a book, looking for a fix in someone else's words, looking for a solution to solve the lack of imagery, the cliche of the void of it —
Everyone is a writer now, new pens, all of us now, proud pens, tall pens, ready… but nothing comes out…yoga tells us to breathe; we know how to…
