by O Collopy

The sweat drips down the cold
Rock face of my skin, collecting
In a pool at my feet as I scrawl
But then I look down as I think
That my shoes begin to overflow
But there I see three inches thick
Of deep slimy liquid flooding and
Filling the room, a fluffy carpet
Floating at my ankles. This is
No warm soapy bath to
Cleanse my worries; nor a
Crystalline stream to
Refresh my sodden mental silt
Like that one more splendid than
Glass which once a priest stained
With the red blood of an innocent
Kid. This is ketchup merged with
Mayonnaise; no feeble stain
But inseparable gloop; condensing
On my clammy hair it evaporates,
More carrot soup than burger sauce
If only it let me see in the dark.

I strain my eyes to focus down at
My page, my pen free flowing,
A detached mechanism of memory
Fleeting, not present consciousness.
Haha! I need no spring of
Inspiration, the burden of knowledge
unloads itself, spilling out. Until
Too much has spilt out and there
It bleeds, ink into the page,
Words into each other, every sentence
And clause soaking up the next:
Ballpoint sinking in the black swell.
Each sweltering pen-stroke foams,
A roaring river of bursting anguish
Not just soggy: absolutely dripping.
Dark night has enfleshed the page.
I turn over. There is no dawn,
Just vats of ink venomously vatic.
I fear the drowning dew that could follow
This lightless night. Oh to be parched!

I cannot be that innocent kid, swimming in
My spurting blood, poured out for
No-one, never to be a noble font.