It all means nothing if I can get this job.
The past erased and moved aside like
And I can stroll in every day like I own it.
And distant memories, accumulated wrappings of
names on labels packed lunches and ink blot and
blisters from broom handles burst
sending pus in my eyes in my hair.
Still the stare asking ‘are you there?’
or somewhere else suspended on hooks
maybe or gutted and skinned alive.
If I get this job nothing will change.
If I get this job doing it my way.
What will I do?
And left Robin to fend while Thrush
wept and dreamt of his return.
Friends. People who are not your enemy.
People to do more than say hi to! To work with
side by side. Oh No! Queen bee is looking for me
I have eggs to fertilise! All she wants is my seed!
Oh away with you queen! Find yourself a new drone!
Go sit on your throne and buzz off!
I have work to do with my friends and colleauges
we have plans too and ideas and targets
And an audience to satisfy.
Little did I know then that art could
be a living, a way out of poverty or
that words joined up together in strings
did not require inclusion in some pre-ordained canon
for them to be heard or even to matter.
If I had I would have paid more attention
to the lessons.
What do you call it when everything you love
is laid out before you? I think its called
Heaven but don’t you have to die to get there?
Well I have died in company more than once
more times than i like to remember in fact.
Or os this just misplaced nirvana or cocunut
hair?What will I do when i get there?