Writers Block

In a stream my consciousness is afloat

like Noah’s gopher wood boat.

An ark of thought, a covenant,

fitted with an outboard motor,

speeding across an ocean of ideas

in a white overcoat.

Across the ocean there lies a land

where the beaches are terribly bland

and phonemes, dwell beneath the sand.

Where fact and fiction are swept up

by the tides of taste and lain upon a shore,

desolate, except for a cultural gate.

Guarded by a sycophantic cat

that sits on an intransigent mat.

Slavishly deciding what is ‘culture’

and who it should let in.

Determining what is rubbish

destined for the bin.

Beyond the cultural gate in the realm of

the ‘canon of stolen truths.’

A miasma blurs the dwellings,

golden towers with ivory roofs.’

Inhabited by odious beasts

that thrive on cultural snobbery.

Profane creatures, renowned for

their linguistic robbery.

Oppressing realistic voices

in favour of elitist choices.

As my boat draws near

the motor looses a gear.

Tendrils of fear now grip the ark’

floating aimlessly, adrift in the dark.

Heading toward the canonical reef,

A rocky barrier where many

a-genre-bending-poet

has come to grief.

I release the birds

that carry the words - but to no avail.

My mission is doomed to fail

smashed against the rocks, and sunk. 

To be washed up on a desolate shore

Like flotsam – just a pile of junk.

                                                                                                      P Williams ©2001