Writing To Myself

It's like I am a stranger, it's like I am not in the room, it's like a ham sandwich without the ham; the ham is on a butchers hook in old London town. Peas pudding and jellied eels overflow, stain this page, make it look like a poem, but not much, make it look like anything, - but not much. What I am always trying to say is not much. One day I am going to make a book out of the spindrift of spiders, take the credit from the thoughts of a stranger. Call him out for being an unknown in an unknown land. Until then I will keep this book shop open but only on moonless nights when there are no strangers to overhear.