If the mind is a draining sink,
and your courage is just a bit of flotsam.
Trying not to go first, clinging to
anything it can, like a coward.

The fears intermittently will stop
the flow with a major
clog but the sucking,
slugging smacking lip sound
is followed by another long piss
out the other end of light.

Your life is a draining sink,
and as a writer you will scour
every last inch of the basin,
before realizing the water left long ago,
and you’ve just joined the
other ghosts in unattended libraries,
to sing your humming lullaby.


I am the leaky tap,
you left on, before you
left off.

I keep filling and filling
until the only thing left is
for you to get the fuck up
and turn the light on
and make me happy
and write my song.

If you want your piping
to work tomorrow
you’ll let me play my tin
pan tonight, until it suits.

If you know what’s good for you,
you’ll play along, too.