Heartburn

All I have is my gym headphones
giving me just enough to block somethings out,
but in reality I'd rather be with Dylan or Zandt.
It feels odd trying to put something together
with this muscle mass.
I'd be better off with my hood pulled over my head
pacing the pavements
feeling my heart race.
Instead, the ashtray is smoking
and the empty cans are looking
more like a party as I go on.
This is bullshit,
and I apologise if you see it the same way.
Prose is where the man grows.
This is just a trap.
A staggering display of self importance
that cocoons the writer.
Too busy searching for quick-fire metaphors
and closing lines
with a bit of weight,
but where is the work?

The work is tired before its done.
That's why the lines jump down to the next
and criticise the last.
That's why my head is nodding
to something I don't understand.
It's simply happening.
Lost in something else.
All of those moments during which
the brain batters its user
and reminds the soul
that it has more in it;
more substance,
more strength.

My chest is burning
and the pulled muscle in my neck
is making my eyes water.
That and everything else.
The poets are tired.
Poetry makes it that way.
The quick release with no real work.
It is self sufficient.
I am only cheating at it now
because nothing really works.
Nothing really works
because of this game.
And it is only a game.
To try and take something too quickly.

It has to come from toil
and trouble.
We have to become the patient mixing bowl.
Waiting without waiting.
We can't exist off mutual masturbation.
We need long love making sessions
that test our endurance.
I'm listening to a song entitled
'return of the twat'
it's not what you'd expect from me,
but I'm here.
Back where I started
having seen the other side of it all.
Poetry is a dead art.
For the lazy
dressed up as fuckable mannequins.
I wish it on no one.
There is a challenge somewhere,
but it will never be here.