Idle Hands

Idle Hands I’m looking at a screen with blue edges, The screen is not so white it has millions dots of black hidden I the vast whiteness I try to write down words or two, let them fly and find their own way, but there is nothingness that has a past or future Before when writing in thee night I had a beer or two to help push me forward, draw an Idea out of me, now silence unpleasant silence. I get up can’t sit here wasting my time I try to read a book it is usually an overlong mess Written on a word processor fit for a secretary. Poetry too is self-indulgent and some are full of words so rare as written by on academic to another, Do not let the people in. Anyway I have retired from poetry and the tyranny of show, do not tell I`m free as the none appearing bird on the screen-