Poems are not for happy days,

For resolutions and self-promises,

For being tough and unresponsive,

Poems are not for new beginnings.

Poems are searching, searing, morbid,

They turn you in and leave the sun,

Poems seek out your obsessions,

They tickle them, they wrap them in a bow.

Poems are not for going out and doing,

For being your great mechanical self.

Poems preve...

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And now I must recover myself

Left, after centuries of fearful neglect

Washed up to dry on a sunless beach.

And now I must plait my hair

Dull, after nights of washing in grease

The guilty searches for lost affection.

And now I must return home,

Home, where I’ve never been

And sit a while and say sorry, I’m sorry, to me.

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