The Wreckage Of Language

a perfectly polished table

reflecting the nightlight

is where I try and write,

the moth-eaten curtains 

obscure the daylight,

my rival hides in the pen

I push limply up and down 

the empty page

nonsense stains,

I consolidate my rage 

in the least words possible,

mongoose skins hang

from the walls,

fact driven enterprise,

crass flavours,

dimwit behaviours 

fall upon the pages

in front of me,  

the wreckage of language,

fragmented

washes up on the shore

of my A4 paper

alphabet soup

don’t taste so good

when you’re

lost for words