When your mind is blank
and you’re writing performance poetry
even though you know it will tank,
it’s a sticky bud poetry and it will
not let go of me
so I try
so I cry
but I will write if it kills me,
the reaper wonders why
another critic ready to cut me down.
Thursday for prayers lay your head
on the block,
there’s a banging on the walls
as the neighbour calls
‘put a sock in it, I can’t hear
he should keep my hours.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.