greeninkfingers

Here again this florid

prose that

I think in, in

particular on nights like this -

if any have been or

will be -

and the parts of my

mind in charge of such

things

string sentences together

all intricate, like pre-

concrete architecture. but

without the blueprints

being laid down first.

There is a garden in my

head, I think - that thought

itself cliché, unoriginal sin -

and it needs

tending

and defending against all

the dull-witted television,

newspapers and drink,

because, unless

it's nurtured, the coils

of it's climbing roses will

never scale up beyond

the weathered

wooden arches that I

fancy line the inside of

my skull, behind the

sockets of my eyes,

and make it out through

there

to pure blank paper

for my pen to find

and with its ink

get watering, dress

the petals up in the promise

of some different morning's

dew.