The poet

Dear diary, if ever I am to escape the terrible shackles of mortality and so on and so forth, I must transcend ordinary feeling and sentiment and shoot out into the grand darkness of the night, nay the blistering grandeur of the light yes yes ( note this down you damn poet, keep going). I must use, by all means necessary and linguistic, conceits of fancy and mercurial temperament must die immediately.

Go on, go forth blind my readership with astounding metaphor. What is this stage of affairs we find ourselves on, this edifice of noted artistry and intrigue. (More more you bastard). What is this budding sky dawning and yearning for something more than itself, translating across to the unknown, unraveling one piece at a time.

What more I say and pound my chest!

As he wrote these last words the poet’s mother walked in: “Isn’t it about time you get a job?”