I am another sordid cliché - the 'poet' who scrawls
'pretty' words on his own sickly skin, awash with
the smell of whiskey at 2.00am as Bach and Beethoven
do their best to inspire beauty from earth that is long overturned.
My chapters have never been dried by butterflies, though...
I am he who is damned and dangerous -
who wakes in a wild fit of anger and uncertainty -
flammable vomit frozen to his clothes, as tepid
sunlight breaks the horizon, and breaks
its promises of warmth again.
I am the man that walks the moors,
into the untamed ether of oblivion,
head bent against the northerly wind;
unkempt, longhaired and forlorn.
I am the lonely recluse in the woods,
dishevelled and disillusioned - trying so hard
to forget the life he has left behind.
And I am the man who walks the mountains,
keeping company with crows and dead daffodils -
drinking his own filth from the unforgiving streams.