This writing lark.
It’s like waiting all night in the freezing cold
eyes glued to the hillside
Praying for a glimpse
to stay awake
to stay still
to bear the freezing ground
the rocks that grate my backside
Then suddenly finding I’m awake,
and it’s light
and I hadn’t even realised I’d fallen asleep
and my eyelashes are ice,
and my vision is blurred
and there’s a dark line in the snow
Until it vanishes.
They’re the tracks of The Cat
he’s passed by in the night
It’s all been for nothing
Fucking for nothing.
That’s what it’s like---
to look, at these ink marks on the page.
And be so damn brimful of disappointment
for what yearns to be spoken
that I cannot find a way to say.