Wednesday, 29 September 2010

How Mr B almost died

New Years
Homeward bound
With a cold
In a cold train compartment

As alone
Like before

His object refused him
But Joyce’s daughter
Would do anything else

In Paris
Under his eyes and nails
In the walls
Outside café’s surroundings

Wet long streets
With rain grey faces
Blowing out
Translations of Proust

His genius picks
And steals
Mistakes in Germany

A writer needs time
To starve broke and
May and Bill don’t know
Enough angles
To see their son
Fighting silence
Among politics

Months disappear through poems
And stories
Failing to win prizes
Or publication

Inches from acclaim
He wastes

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