Previously, I’d imagined
Writer’s block was an empty loft.
Nothing there but pigeon shit and echoes
It’s not though.
It is stuffed, rammed, jammed and bloody well bunged up.
Like a colon after Christmas.
Too much feasting on the fabulous
Bingeing. Masticating and swallowing.
All at once
There’s belly ache and belching.
Get this stuff out of me.
So I can slither smoothly on, once more
It wasn’t porky tautology, mounded dinner-plate-deep on sprouts and poultry.
Not this time.
I’ve been awash with words, gulped prose and delicious, crispy poems.
Fizzing on my tongue.
Greedy, guzzling, head in the trough
If I’d said the drought was finally over
Maybe you’d view me kindly.
But there was no starvation. This is no drenching deluge.
There’s no excuse for ravening through the pages.
Gratification alone. Piggy, selfish scoffing.
If only there was an Alka Seltzer for the brain.
most of all
The result doesn’t turn out to be a great big fat turd.