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Another blocked sink;
I stare morosely as I try to think
in fluid waters, liquid thoughts.
Yet the water refuses to move. Stuck.

I pump the plunger
furiously, to work up a pressure
so that bottom vacuum pulls
the water down. Still the path refuses to clear. Stuck.

So tired. So out of breath.
Yet I long for crystal images
that once adorned my pages.
I yearn for egg and wreath.

As the clock ticks nonchalant to spite me,
to tell me that which flows right through
my hands,
I wish its hands get stuck.

As the sink continues its motionless rebellion,
My mind, in stubborn parallel, gets blocked.

I throw down my tools,
Plunger and pen.
In sudden hedonism

I turn on the tap full blast and now the water flows not through, but over and out and above
the sink to overflow and drown whatever fucking thing is in its path.

So desperate. So tired.
I want to drown and maybe hope to find the flowing watery words in my death.

But even that, in the light of a stuck sink,
is a futile hyperbole.


21st April 2000