Begorrah

Summer Hill PO

There’s nothing worse (well, there is, but still) than this: the last book done; its projected successor in limbo (publishers don’t want it); no clear way to embark upon the next one. Do I even want to write any more? I could retreat to the shoreline somewhere and re-inhabit my lizard brain. Just professional woes I suppose. I am in what James K Baxter called ‘great dryness of mind’. I turn, as so often before, to Beckett:

Echo’s Bones

asylum under my tread all this day

their muffled revels as the flesh falls

breaking without fear or favour wind

the gantelope of sense and nonsense run

taken by the maggots for what they are

 

– construe that, if you can, begorrah!

 

pic by Maggie Hall, May 29, 2017, on Smith Street

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