I suppose I'm not the first or last person who has started a blog and then not updated it very often. It's not because I've not got anything to say - here's my comments on the Guardian's website - I've just lost focus. If anything, I get too many ideas for what to write and, like a swordfish trying to find a single victim in a huge shoal, they all get away. Writer's glut is as bad as writer's block.
Anyway here's a poem by Charles Bukowski. I hope I don't get sued for posting it :)
tough company
poems like gunslingers
sit around and shoot holes in my windows
chew on my toilet paper
read the race results
take the phone off the hook.
poems like gunslingers
ask me what the hell my game is,
and would I like to shoot it out?
take it easy, I say,
the race is not to the swift.
the poem sitting at the south end of the couch draws, says balls off for that one!
take it easy, pardner. I have plans for you.
plans, huh! what plans?
The New Yorker, pard.
he puts his iron away.
the poem sitting in the chair near the door stretches, looks at me: you know, fat boy,
you been pretty lazy lately
f--- off, I say. who’s running this game?
we’re running this game, say all the gunslingers
drawing iron: get with it!
so here you are:
this poem was the one who was sitting on top
of the refrigerator flipping beercaps.
and now I’ve got him out of the way
and all the others are sitting around
pointing their weapons at me and saying:
I’m next, I’m next, I’m next!
I suppose that when I die
the leftovers will jump some
other poor son of a bitch.
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