I'd love to own an Olivetti, but I am sixty years too late.
So I raise a silver screen instead, who raises a pixelated brow
in finesse, and sneers at fickle filamental thought.
No longer content with waiting, he seeks pleasure with static.
Even grown-up words have ceased to make sense.
Adjectives like "staunch" and "profound" easily twist
themselves into dyslexic cameos, stilted and profane.
Elsewhere a bohemian crowd breaks gamely in song.
I shut it off, choosing to let restless hunger feed off
professional fear. It drips stealthily from unsteady fingers.
Raucuous twenty-somethings laugh and jeer, not caring
that I have wrapped myself in a wet, sweat blanket,
that I tremble as a gut-chill pierces the base of my spine,
and lingers in a needling pulsing shock.
For me, I whisper, for me, for me , for me,
over and over again as I will silent fingers to speak.
Where inspiration breaks apart chunnelling pistons,
and resets tousled junctions in delicate silicon circuits,
my dead calm lover evades. Coyly, I chase her in a labyrinth.
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When I hit the much dreaded writer's block, I deal with it by writing something entirely incongruous (i.e. anything that's not related to work).
Comments most welcomed.