Journal (Offerings of Depiction)

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

Used to.

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.