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.
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