Polishing awaits but the lyrics are almost on the road. No monkeys at the door and no one chiseling away at the painted bricks on the windows. Brow-sweat at a minimum. But palpitations are never more than a fingernail away. You only need to look at the scratches on in the wallpaper. An advance on royalties should have hit the welcome mat but I'm down to thin yoghurt, sour dough crumbs and wild raspberries. Perhaps the publisher didn't overtake the monkey. Perhaps all that imagination has slid off her lap and fallen into file 13.
It's rock 'n' roll poetry - a bit of Byron, a lot of Zappa and a hint of Incredible String Band, without the comfortable cardigans. Starting to doubt everything now. Just an email, a text, a smile, half a smile, anything you can spare. My empty hat is on the pavement and shoes are hurrying by.
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