A Kind of Living

In Yorkshire, a bit of bacon-butty in a greasy cafe - could have had blood sausage. My breaches are squeaking, mice are leaving deposits. Somehow a few do applaud my slippery tongue. Beer in Belfast gray foaming weather kept the damp town breezy. Recite my crap. Pub talk, fist fights in the carpark, I miss a missing train. Read poems to smug buggers in Birmingham, drip out of there and good riddance. Back to London and the mold riddled dump that keeps me from an old cranking typewriter. Mind-ghosts slither around its keys. A poets life begins haphazardly, conflicted as it is with the right to be or not to be.