Well, since you ask (no I know, actually you didn't), what happens is this. It's a bit like having a fever or wanting a poo. Images come at you and hang around like flies until you do something with them and they just won't bloody go away. And then it's all a bit like childbirth on a small scale; or pooing. This thing has to come out one way or another, flies and all. And that, for me, is what writing a poem is like. I'm sure Philip Larkin would say exactly this.
Missing
Listening to Tracey Thorn,
with that fruitless yearning
for a fruit to fill this maw,
looking for a thing unborn,
unfertilised, the burning
of a sun neither here nor
there, ever. Ever love-lorn
for new actors learning
one role, evermore,
like Eastenders. Worn
tracks always returning
me to you, or him. Or him. Or.
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