Tonight I decided I would finish reading my book, and I did. The only feat of personal discipline—fairly leisure-related, rather well temporally defined, entirely independent of others—that I can remember myself accomplishing. (Then again, I have a notoriously bad memory.)
After that I came to the computer. I wrote the obligatory obscure messages—most probably more obscure than is obligatory—to people of import, and got to writing. A poem. I decided to add something to my new blog so as to push myself into habit—which is in itself a rather nasty habit I've fallen into in the past years—and there it was, another poem. I had been writing once a half-year at most, and this was my third weekly poem.
Nevertheless, after a few moments of floating in the murky waters of my mind, I managed the first plunge, which turned into a smooth, violent dive. I may do this again, soon.
(When I close my eyes, engines and wails and all sorts of noise rage in my ears.)
•
forced conception
Every day I'll toss and turn and ache in vain over a blank sheet of glass
white glass
(the kind that shatters
at every significant thought)
and it will stare back at me plain
immaculate
unscathed
not a wrinkle in its perfect
distorted
face
and smile that empty smile
which like a simile will empty my mind
of all likeness
sever the lines of cognitive transience
that make stains of poetry on the pale linens of thought
or write
write
write
write
(my favourite
favourite
trick)
until my hands
are words
crawling on the page
my tongues are melodies
echoing through the
empty hallways full
full of people
a choir of want
that drinks up my desire
and spits out
inspiration
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