It’s Sunday, and I’m trying to fight it
The urge to get drink and fags. Last night my
Face burned as I lay in bed. Now I sit
Writing today’s fourteen line diary
And hoping after that to write poetry
Then, after that, ideas for a novel
Ideas that, mainly at work, came to me
In bored moments, or chatting by email
The muse loves chit-chat; yes, she loves it well
As I talk to another, her voice flits
Into my lobes like lizard’s tongue, a fly
That she has caught, but not, this time, to kill
No, what’ll more likely do that’s the spit
From snakes, drunk from a can, smoke sticks nearby
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