May 1, 2024
S202402 Ep12: Cursed Be Thy Name
The pen is always heavy,
when it’s months since you lifted it.
The weight of the space left behind
undressed, unaddressed.
Time without colour,
days without commas,
seconds stripped asunder,
drunk on the spirit of everlasting
full stops.
———
This pen has a cough,
the sign of an infected life
lived as if there was no editor
round the corner
waiting.
No publisher
cracking teeth,
chewing toenails,
waiting
for the pen to impregnate the page with filth,
for the ink to copulate with lines
that conceive parables,
that deceive imaginations
so much that the nib cries for rest,
prays for time off
howls for sleep,
from having to be so good
and having to deliver best-selling sentences,
gobsmacking phrases,
gut-wrenching couplets.
——
No poet needs a pen.
The essential requirement for poetry is a mouth,
a voice box,
a larynx,
lungs.
We have ways of transcribing your dung,
software to soften your crudities,
Code.
——
Give us your guts, your flint, your rock.
We can knock you into marketable shape.
Give us your foulest wake,
your Finnegan.
I’ll even take your Sappho to bed
and snore ‘til dawn,
with her panting for more.
I’ll make Shakespeare disappear,
and Bashō re-appear
as a disgruntled dung beetle,
before I grant your pen
the right to light the rite of the brightening word-scape.
——
The Pen,
R.I.P.,
survived lovingly by its mother’s quill,
its significant other Bottle of spirits,
its children Procrastine and Prostatinus -
lies with coffin open all night
to the quickening sky,
in the front room of OMani’s Bookshop,
in the toilet of your treadmill,
in the dustbin of your mind,
in the gutter of your good manners,
waiting for eternity,
and, if that’s not long enough, tough on you,
with your expectations of Heaven,
with your confidence in being reincarnated
as the elephant god of wisdom,
or with at least a modicum of respect
for how you’ve served
the progeny of cave carvings,
the issue of hieroglyphical outbursts,
the offspring of juggled alphabets,
and the latest emojis.
Trend-setter you,
cursed be thy name.
——
No matter how heavy the pen,
no matter how sick the ink,
no matter how smelly the script,
no matter how disreputable the collection,
the air will carry your sentiments
alongside the letter Cain wrote to Abel,
the note Judas wrote to Joseph,
the missive Abraham scribbled to the Buddha,
all the smoke signals,
text messages,
emails,
phone calls
and whisperings.
The wind will amalgamate the lot,
and you will be branded
another infant in the long line.
when it’s months since you lifted it.
The weight of the space left behind
undressed, unaddressed.
Time without colour,
days without commas,
seconds stripped asunder,
drunk on the spirit of everlasting
full stops.
———
This pen has a cough,
the sign of an infected life
lived as if there was no editor
round the corner
waiting.
No publisher
cracking teeth,
chewing toenails,
waiting
for the pen to impregnate the page with filth,
for the ink to copulate with lines
that conceive parables,
that deceive imaginations
so much that the nib cries for rest,
prays for time off
howls for sleep,
from having to be so good
and having to deliver best-selling sentences,
gobsmacking phrases,
gut-wrenching couplets.
——
No poet needs a pen.
The essential requirement for poetry is a mouth,
a voice box,
a larynx,
lungs.
We have ways of transcribing your dung,
software to soften your crudities,
Code.
——
Give us your guts, your flint, your rock.
We can knock you into marketable shape.
Give us your foulest wake,
your Finnegan.
I’ll even take your Sappho to bed
and snore ‘til dawn,
with her panting for more.
I’ll make Shakespeare disappear,
and Bashō re-appear
as a disgruntled dung beetle,
before I grant your pen
the right to light the rite of the brightening word-scape.
——
The Pen,
R.I.P.,
survived lovingly by its mother’s quill,
its significant other Bottle of spirits,
its children Procrastine and Prostatinus -
lies with coffin open all night
to the quickening sky,
in the front room of OMani’s Bookshop,
in the toilet of your treadmill,
in the dustbin of your mind,
in the gutter of your good manners,
waiting for eternity,
and, if that’s not long enough, tough on you,
with your expectations of Heaven,
with your confidence in being reincarnated
as the elephant god of wisdom,
or with at least a modicum of respect
for how you’ve served
the progeny of cave carvings,
the issue of hieroglyphical outbursts,
the offspring of juggled alphabets,
and the latest emojis.
Trend-setter you,
cursed be thy name.
——
No matter how heavy the pen,
no matter how sick the ink,
no matter how smelly the script,
no matter how disreputable the collection,
the air will carry your sentiments
alongside the letter Cain wrote to Abel,
the note Judas wrote to Joseph,
the missive Abraham scribbled to the Buddha,
all the smoke signals,
text messages,
emails,
phone calls
and whisperings.
The wind will amalgamate the lot,
and you will be branded
another infant in the long line.