With my left hand automatic writing.
Three taps and the spirit begins, hungry
for my attention. We’re all hungering
with need. Bring me my water pipe, my tea,
chaos. What is a ghost but compulsion
personified? I am as compulsive
as it comes. You quote Shelley, I Byron.
Cockspur; we still quote men who don’t forgive,
forget or learn from their mistakes. Spirit,
mayhem, bring your mouth low. I have dead aunts,
mothers, sisters that only you recall.
Tap out my love to them. Be the poet
that I’ll never be; mumbling in trance,
just more wet clay with a lisp and a drawl.