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.