I have let the dishes pile up again. 
The clock ticks on past ten to five. 
No matter how hard I screw my eyes up, 
it won't disappear and nor will they. 

I have constructed the pile of my reality 
plate by plate. Procrastination is my idol: 
I have been down on bent knee 
to 'I'll just do it later' since 
later was sliced bread. 
I ate it with toast and Marmite, 
narrowly conscious of society. 

How else will I find a sense of quiet? 
I know no other way but 
a task hanging over my head, 
a sword with ink on the tip. 

A piece of wood notched with curved lines: 
I left one in public for anyone to find. 
Do not stop, despite your weariness. 
Follow the label to the letter. 


For Hulme, Kuper and McQueen.

First published here.