This is it

The day has come

grab the bull by the horns

or else

your life is gone

seeping away

drip by bloody lethargic drip

till you find yourself stretched thin

in one of Heysham's stoney graves

critical naiveté

critical naiveté

Tokyo Station: Maronouchi Exit '03

I watch him trickling along
side Mr Self-Important
a balding junior
babbling in sycophantic hops

skips
and jerky
jumps

all toothy smiles and sweaty scrapes
bowing low
as he's casually dismissed without a break in stride

WHO CARES

your mind races and you write a poem

not understanding the compulsion or caring what others think

not that you are beyond caring more that you are moved to do it in a way you think or feel is real without commas

you know what I mean?

do you care?

like that poem Raymond Carver penned about the dying dog anyway it died and he buried it with his cares

that word again oh dear cropping up like a badly-scripted poem