By Sophie Robinson.
why is everybody always writing
about fucking like me the more writing
to be done the less time to do the
necessary fucking for poetry
which is just as well when “at a bar” or
side by side alone & almost having
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous
lines up the days & besides you don’t love
each other so much today as yesterday
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do
anything but write some stupid sonnet
frigid at the kitchen table no damp
itch to speak of no great love to leap off
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