Lost in a Back to Back Office

As I was reading
What I’ve previously
Wrote,
I found a helpless
Misunderstanding and
Loose-fitting
Comfort,
An inaccurate
Hypochondriac
Answer
To my soul.

I guess I'm afraid
To speak my mind,
Regretting what I’ve just written
Might hurt someone’s else
Feelings.

I've told you before
About making a point
Achieving grace
In a literate
Way.

I dream the life of a writer:

A self-imposed exile
Just for kicks,

The idea of
Becoming an exclusive part of the
Avant-garde life,
Politically distant
From the commonplace
Comfort of an
Ordinary
And
Dull life.

A room full of torn books,
Pages messing around on the floor,
Drug-fuelled nights hammering the keyboard
And beating
The block.

A bizarre but familiar town,
Reflecting city lights
And sounds
From a wide-open
Window.

The rhythmically be-bop sound of keys
Stuttering words and concepts
Through a five feet long
Paper roll.

The shadows in my story reflecting
The walls of my soul.
Pics that unveil my characters,
A black and white
Collage
Stuck in rotten walls.

A steam drawing
Cup of tea,
A Golden Virginia

Cigarette roll,

Amsterdam beneath the diamond

sky,

A portrait of an artist

As a young man.

Custom House - 21/06/07