The Death of Modesty
I wrote a short book:
It dealt with the human condition,
Meaning, and what is meant by meaning.
Nobody bought my short book.
It was deemed elitist navel gazing
For the intellectually under nourished.
So I shot myself.
I did not literally shoot myself.
I simply stopped writing,
Which as a writer is a kind of death.
When I explained this to my friends
They promptly made it clear that
They were, in fact, no longer my friends.
A sort of second death.
I took to spitting at my own reflection
And envying the terminally ill.
A shuffling recluse, I learnt
To accept the peculiarity of silence;
I had started to smell.
A smell not dissimilar to
Blocked drains and the sweating
Skin of bruised bananas.
There were undertones of smoked oak.
Personal hygiene seemed futile:
Showers, clean clothes and clean teeth
Struck me as loathsome banalities,
To pity and rise above.
Cluttered with the commonplace obligation
Of ‘seeming respectable’
We miss the adventure
Of organic chaos.
I drank heavily in the mornings
And would masturbate into old socks,
The cat had died and with it my
Capacity to feel.
I started to write again.