further odes to The Man

we start questioning
the words
which last night held every secret to the universe
which we pounded and sweated into keyboards
pressing on resolute, through fields of infinite pioneer thoughts
and genius inspirations
through endless exponential tumblings of words and thoughts far faster
than our humble fingers could record
(can you feel it catching in your throat? The thought that maybe
what you’re saying is True
you are on to something
there is genius approaching in the next sentence)

well, today.
these words are naked and exposed in their size 12 fontology
blotchy and embarrassing
like daylight on the clubbers skin
no longer uv glowing in the metro morning.

so - we are deleting our life’s work
with flushed cheeks at the delusions
of literacy
we are crumpling pages for binmen and resolutely
eradicating files
we are batting the small pangs of regret
that keep flicking at our eyes

I confess:
I am not a genius
I am not a writer
Perhaps, after all, I am average
(and trite)

these are not words that can be said aloud
fixed up in the sunshine,
broken down car engine thoughts that were fucked in the rain.

these are dirty, bitter cabbage soup thoughts
which burn the tongue
and no amount of grated fresh ginger
can make palatable.

but: it is ok
we have tonight, a bottle, a laptop
some hours to dribble and burn and prosper
- until tomorrow
when the delete key returns