There is the window now, where literature should fly
Like cream from the golden cow.
Alas, it dribbles like my cock,
Nothing inspirational from either spout.
Oh fount of wisdom where art thou lurking
No turkey-in-the-straw shenanigans now, please
Spew forth some of that didactic waffle
The separates the waits from the greats
Why can’t I be like Scott Fitzgerald
Painting the pages with wit
Or like Graham Greene, or Hemingway
Instead of some limp-wristed scribbler of drivel?
What magazines say to me
Hey boy, we need you…God, we need you
Write us a story…any old story,
Dammit, why can’t they see me for what I am?
Undiscovered genius, even by myself.
There is a thin line between success and failure
And I am that thin line.
Invisible maybe, but there nevertheless.
Had I begun forty years ago I guess I might have made it by now;
I realise that this automatic waffling is neither coherent or pleasing,
But is coherency necessarily successful?
Why not write complete drivel instead and see who falls for it?
You see, there are many tricks but no trick-cyclists.
Oh yes, some will tell you ‘This is brilliant…this is it’
But what fields have they greened?
What mountains have they looked at and said ‘fuck this for a game,
I’ll try again tomorrow’
Tomorrow…now that’s a very useful day…especially for a writer.
There’s always tomorrow, isn’t there?
When your brain writes quicker than your fingertips,
When your arse itches and your cock twitches
There are fires to be stoked and holes to be poked
Wicks to be dipped and tits to be tipped.
So what if love makes the world go round,
Lust makes it go faster.

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