Writer of Wrongs

The Writer of Wrongs

He sits alone at dark of night,
Inside his room, beneath the bridge.
Books lie tumbled all around,
The silence broken by the sound
As blunted fingers seek and peck
A tattoo on the keyboard.

His body arching to his task,
entrapped by fate, he can not cease,
his limbs are tense, their strain increasing,
perching, rounded, pain not easing,
humpty-backed with wire-hair sprouting,
broad nose flaring, nostrils wide.

Shuffling, grunting, spitting, farting,
slurping greedy from his pot,
he tries so hard to catch the moon
but always, somehow, only gloom
awaits him, even though somewhere
a sullen brightness gleams.

The puffing, groaning, giant body,
foetid with the scum of years,
fidgets, anxious - twisting, turning
in its eyes ambition burning
trying for some recognition.
Notice me! - You Shits!

He can write and well he knows it
but content, meaning, count for all!
His base soul fetters his true flight,
he sits alone into the night,
inside his room beneath the bridge
and huffs frustration - streaming bile.

? John F Griffiths 2002