Who would be a poet, writer or scribe in the modern world?

How much more exciting and soul destroying

it must have been in days when Kerouac could slump over a typewriter

and bang his head in withdrawn frustration

on the polished and

d

e

n

t

e

d

desk.

The pile of A4 paper to his left , ever dwindling, never being pregnant with word

upon word, upon life sentence, instead cluttering up the floor

in a moon scarred landscape that defeats the purpose

in having a carpet, the paper more adaptable as kindling

when screwed

uptight, uptight, they’re right, you’re always wrong…

…Nothing changes.

 

The dramatic pose of the frustrated writer

when they do the job well and on time but still

hurl the typewriter across the room,

is now lost to a generation concerned with making sure

they don’t invalidate the warranty served on

their (swoosh)

lap (swoosh)

top (swoosh

and P.C. (crash).

Now I move everything from the table that might be valuable,

I place down the pile of C.Ds away from the fall out zone

and make sure that my cup of tea is well away

from the anger burning in me

as I try to restrain the idea that the words,

on time, in place, well thought out and with imagery

are somehow a hobby.

 

Oh to lose control and sweep everything off the table,

the ridiculous clock given to you

to mark time, stand still, attentionnnn, begin,

to inspire you, would be just trampled to death

and it would be a wonderful fatality,

springs flying out everywhere and the smile on the face of a maniac

looking back from the mirror made to show you ageing and wasting

your time away.

Oh to say fuck it all and with a gesture not lost on the dramatic,

to pour down the throat a bottle of cheap scotch whisky,

light a cigarette or a contemptible, undistinguished cigar

and set the words alight…

…to have the most brutal of ideas,

the genius of perfection rise up, take shape and nibble

at your breast until in a manner of savage deliverance

it has wasted you further than any unrepentant mania could

ever

achieve.

 

I have no bin in which to sweep the scrunched wastepaper off the floor,

just a delete button and the deftness of a finger too well

adverse in understanding that once you sell your soul

there is no way to mortgage it back.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015