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                                                   the writing’s
                                                   on the wall

                                   I can be becoming lost for weeks
                                   unable to release to exciting
                                   foiled in creativity even by my breath
                                   unable to waltz or askance as I promise myself
                                   held by the very wall that materialises
                                   precisely where I thought to move

                                   because there is something closer than my retinas
                                   in me which I cannot see
                I cannot see
                                   because I am hanging on
                                   to the last shred of dignity
                                   the last white hope
                                   and this makes me so blind that
                                   I cannot even see the walls at my toe
                                   before I swing my foot to kick and
                                   I cannot even see the walls
                                   in my cranium
                                   before I blink

                                   to stumble over
                                   stood in inertia no matter how busy
                                   I become no matter how much I do without looking

                                                                      it’s the writing
                                                                      no it’s the tidal lunging for vindication
                                                                      no it’s the reminder
                                                                      the reinforcement
                                   that I am powerless in a pointless universe
                                   in which I still want to emerge the hero
                                   brandishing the latest sheaf of sublimity
                                   (even if not on the rooftops waving my genitals)

                                   so what do I do
                                   do I stop it all now and snap out of it
                                   do I make myself sit for hours of balming penance
                                   do I slap my wrists for wanting to publish
                                                   no Mark
                                                   here’s a pen
                                                   and here’s the line
                                                   and here’s the wall
                                                   to write on ready-





[writer’s] block & talking to myself wormhole: sit. / In. / g …
superhero wormhole: ‘I am a secret / superhero …’
vindication wormhole: twisted / pulled / and chipped
walls wormhole: sun low / from behind
writing & zazen wormhole: instinct