Blighter’s Rock

Blighter’s Rock

My images are staid and stock,
My cheese is chalk, my writing’s schlock,
And stuck in mud, I’ve run aground
On Blighter’s Rock.

Blighter’s Rock stands harsh and high,
(Where all things written go to die)
The wind is plaintive in its crags
Like an author’s sigh.

Its reefs are soiled with crumpled wrecks:
The record of some dull reflex
That tries to do these complex things
Instead of sex.

Some few may make a getaway,
Sail on to write another day,
Retrieve their fortunes, fix the text,
Anchors aweigh!

But most, once snagged upon the reef,
Succumb to long complaint, or grief,
And sink before they find relief
Or words to say.

So if you see it off to port
Looming like some craggy fort
Steer hard to starboard, don’t approach,
Or you’ll get caught.

Blighter’s Rock stands harsh and high
(Where all things written go to die)
The wind is plaintive in its crags
Like an author’s sigh.

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