In the second half of last year I found it difficult to write poetry that I was wholly satisfied with. Poetry last year really made me question whether I want to be a commercial poet or just do it on the sidelines for fun, probably because of my lecturer. I mean, I'm not stupid, I know poets don't make a lot of money nowadays but contemporary poetry, or at least from my lecturers perspective, seemed like the last dregs of creativity that were just becoming more and more diluted, more and more manufactured. I mean, even now the media is trying to 'sell' individuality and independence: 'yeah we're totally indie people we live on £2 a day and weave baskets with our beards'. I know not everyone is like this but its almost becoming vapid to stand up for yourself and say 'Well, I guess my music taste is unique' without getting a ton of criticism from other people claiming nothing is original. And when something is sold as individual its like the dogs fucking bollocks.
I find life confusing sometimes so I wrote this poem which may or may not be related.
I'm not surprised people become alcoholics.
The Last Dregs
The first, the last; the worst
--not second or third
the thirst,
a craving for liqour
drink quicker get sicker
See how she rolls from dusk to dawn
sweet Aurora,
with her lips still longing,
unsatiated,
for the taste of something more.
