Perfection is the blank page, virgin white,
Not the completed poem, full of flaws,
Revealing prejudice and background, quite
Embarrassing, and flouting good taste’s laws.
Talking of taste, I’ve had a two-night pause
From alcohol, but now I’m drinking beer,
And I find that, as each mouthful restores
Sweet calm, all of a sudden, bedtime’s here.
For what can be achieved when you kill fear,
And conscience, consciousness, and clear insight,
Escaping to these alcoholic shores
Where harsh reality is never near?
This white page, stained with black, cannot be right,
Yet here it is, expecting some applause.
Sun 1 July 2007
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