stop. am i so teaseable?
do i look perfect? you just love
winding me up?
sometimes there's a limit to how much i can laugh,
and all i want -
all i want now is sleep.
or to be alone, and walking through
dirty snow in a busy city under naked trees
where no-one knows my language.
or to be a good pianist, so that when
i sit down on the stool good notes will flow out,
not clashing cords. i'm fed up of my
fingers being too big for the keys.
when i play, i want to be void of thought,
but i'm supposed to be a poet.
but i don't like my poems.
i suppose it's like the dada movement.
how can an artist be against art?
how could i ever say it's boring not being in love?
Author notes
Written March 30th, 2005
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