A woman on TV last night said that everyone could sing.
I sing like a tone deaf punk.
I don’t need to feel guilty about it.
I know I write like I wiped my arse with Shakespeare,
Because I failed to enter art school.
So when the muse doesn’t strike,
I just sit down and write,
Like my ex’s father who trawled
Through Auckland’s streets looking for bargains
To sell on TradeMe.
Sure, I look through my lines
For something that I might like,
Then I polish it with Brasso
Until I’m a proud pea brained bower bird,
Hoping for ill gotten lines to
Attract a temporary mate.
My what a gem I have here.
I don’t care what you think of the oddly coloured plastic
Scattered here and there.
Or I stand in the shower until a line comes.
Then I forget it and make up something else,
Because I was too drunk to write it down,
While I was gloating over how good it was.
Or I translate lines that took weeks to cobble together
Into Esperanto, hoping the next line will come.
Or I listen to a podcast while I’m sleeping at night.
And then jumbled inspiration comes,
Like a garage sale’s sign on a street corner,
Disturbing my need to sleep.
No, Bukowski,
I don’t need to feel guilty because I want to be a writer.