this room's a casual structural map
of my head's inside and my emotional crap
twenty piles of towering books
CDs in piles i listened to them in
half eaten peanut butter sandwiches in the bin
i'm Moorcock, Keroauc, Eliot some of the time
modernism's ironic jism in a laconic rhyme
towels drying into that awful stink
and mould growing in the coffee i didn't drink
i have other more important things to do
than to sort my head out and clean my room
i'm not scraping barrels i'm scraping through
and this in no way signifies any kind of doom
i am not lazy, crazy, or particularly fucked up
i'm writing here, there's inspiration in that cup
hopper, giger, and film stills on the wall
i need this shit to make sure i don't stall
charlie parker, the fall, and acdc are playing
who cares that the ends of my trousers are fraying?
this is the debris of more than an average week
i'm a thinker, a wanker, aa drinker, an internet geek
but you'll fall in love with me every time i speak
so this disgusting mess is surely not that bleak?
there's not a single solitary poet soul i wouldn't fuck
it's my responsibility and one i would never duck
velvet fist wrapped in a poetical iron glove
come on in lover let me give you some textual love

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...