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Writer's Block
When those floodgates open
they’ll surely be for me
my fingers marking time for years
my solace only drips and dribbles
tears and other nightly condensations
damp love letters to the gods of fame
Crumpled into frustrated balls
or drowned in vodka and cheap wine
abandoned phrases like cigarette stubs
flushed down the toilet of despair that come back
to mock me floating there like soggy stanzas
in my mind - useless as tinder
Downstream colleagues pupils and
other furious fish splash through the shallows
as here and there one makes it to the open sea
flashing away to notoriety somewhere
across oceans of scribbling and waves
to America, the New York Times
Pushcart and Pulitzer
Their names up there in glistening lights
squelch slush and bravo to them what do I care
life’s an improbable mix of hydrogen two oxygen
and luck and in the end we’re all extinguished anyway
drowned decomposing in the silt at best a short-lived
celebration – flotsam and jetsam on an unread shore
So drink up my fellow flounderers
writing those love letters to the gods of fame
this round’s on me barman fill our glasses
closing time’s almost upon us
and who’s to say which one of us
may find his hiccupping way into a limerick’s lee
© Johnmichael Simon
2012
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