Muscles aching;
neck, shoulders, back.

I pick out gnarly cliches,
narrative intrusions,
surfeits of ands and thens,
ponderous passages that tell
how and what and why
where a single gesture,
an inclination of the head,
a crinkled nose, the sound
blood would show more
than words can tell…

I struggle to reclaim
my inspiration,
the air is cold
when I inhale,
warmer when I exhale,
sluggish words
fail to sparkle, ideas
lurk rancid like
forgotten lettuce sludge
in the bottom of the fridge.

6 thoughts on “Sludge

  1. Yeah, I would say that depicts writing frustraiton quite well! Your lettuce sludge does it for me! LOL. Goodo!

  2. ewww…..the lettuce sludge at the bottom of the fridge is gross…that stuff is so slimy nasty…shivers…i hope the muse finds you ready, smiles…..cause i def would not mind more noir…just saying…

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