Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
New poetry to start off the week at The Disappointed Housewife. Today’s contribution is from a young British poet, which reminds me that we’ve seen a number of pieces so far from writers outside North America. That’s right: The Housewife is an internationally known publication!
Sofa Surfer Blues
?I drank myself last night and I tasted of oblivion.
Keep on swinging madly across the sun Mr Dylan,
I could never keep up with you I’m in a war of words
with the verse endless invisible unknowable in my head
riding in on your sofa surfer blues.
?“Poetry is dead!” shouts Poverty of Mind,
but we hear a cold lonely trumpet in the afternoon haze,
conjuring in the air and biting at his claws.
She sits in the lizard lounge with a wire in her brain
telling her what the whispers mean
as she drifts in the stranger’s kitchen Limboland;
we pass on the Road swaying to our sofa surfer blues.
?Our day a long bar pulling slow pints ends
in holding each other on the heath,
Road still rolling by us
she writes letters penned in junk
(ink in the vein swirling hunger)
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