It's something to fill the hours
this poetry stuff
at the grave of Sylvia Plath -
notebook in one hand,
a bottle of fizz in the other
or is that Jim Morrison?
or was that a can of Tennent's Super?
Eventually it gets hard
in your lap. It is damp.
Soon you will have to unbutton
and get it done.
No-one looking.
It is Keith Moon on that gravestone.
You are a teenager again,
a right proud arse on you,
red as a baboon.
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