I begin much as I do every time
With the ritual arm wrestling
Of pencil to paper.
It is a self discipline regime,
Within which I self inflict effort,
Rather like the short course
Speed skaters of Bear Wood
Convinced of the benefits
Of rigorous writing, I measure the gains
Against a steel rule nailed upright to my wall.
At times I have found the jog easy,
At other times
I have winced at the stream of wordy,
Unwholesome drivel I have excruciatingly
Exhumed through my exertions.
There will of course be a coffin here, somewhere.
It is as though, by labourious shoveling,
I have achieved nothing more
Than an unimpressive pile
Of grandiose excrement.
By any ordinary horizontal measure
It could easily be declared,
The finest first class journalism.
But by my more trying vertical measure,
It achieves a poetical classification,
Of not more than a tepid Tutu.
So, exactly as I said earlier
My arm wrestling day began this dawn.
Therefore I once again commenced
with a struggled halfgrip on my pencil.
There were movements about the page.
This is not to describe any automatic writing,
Neither the motions of the artist sketching,
More, to be illustrative,
Of a lurching towards completion
Injected with irrational urgency.
True to forum, here are my words,
Mixed snippets of odd and fast sentences,
Rapid responses to earthy connections.
Neurological nuances on the themes of living.
Interconnectedness gone rabid walkabout,
Water borne and deserted.
Autocathonous, so completely of the mind.
Original, self contained.
The legends have now been written.
The deciphering of which,
Depletes the message of its dense meaning.
Nothing therefore is derived, nothing arrives.
Nothing gets passed, person to person.
Neither is it padded.
Nothing leaves the paper.
And so this pointless pencil of mine,
Rubs, at my direction,
Against the grey shaded page,
Leaving only the smudged scribble.
The rantings were of Self, again, lost.
However and regardless, the limb continues
Its grappling with the neuron
And my side swipe leaves its mark
In the ledger of life.
C2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.