Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Writer's Block Saturday

sunflower oil like a chaser.

Christ, a month in this
high ceiling one room flat
with a surly lovesick roomie, one
    crazed cunt
reorganizing my undie pile and
    talking through the bathroom door
while I’m trying to poop.
The writing's good when you got
    something to hate.

But now she’s gone
and now there’s a mouse, eating
Christmas cookies
on the bedroom floor,
and there’s bottles of beer around
    that it doesn’t touch and that
didn’t do much for the writing.

The cookie moves around in the dim light
of blank Word files waiting,
Last of the Summer Wine on the TV.

The mouse keeps me up all night
    and the next day
I’m still not
writing
and I blame it,
cause I can.

I set my mind on sunflower oil bucket traps
and poison pellet buffets.

I'm still not writing the next day
and I wait for the rodent to go softly, take pics of
    the little traps, prove that I am trying
honestly.

I eat some
cold soup and
hate myself a little more.
I feel sick.

I imagine the mouse giving birth and
before you know it I imagine they’re eating away
at my hard drive, fucking their brothers and sisters
by the nightlight of my Macbook's backlit keys
and I loose
the few pieces I’ve
stuck together.

I imagine I die a little, and just
become a full time bartender
or cook.
Let what I do go from ‘write’ to
    ‘pour Boreal pints, two at a time’ or
‘cook beef ravioli’.

Hopefully the mouse dies seamlessly.
Hopefully the mouse dies first.

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