Poetry, for me, is about 2% inspiration and 98% hard work. I've had my short moment of inspiration, so now I'm in the work-your-ass-off phase. I need to have the poem done by the end of the weekend. That's when the editor needs to submit it to the publisher. Tomorrow night, I plan to have a finished rough draft. Saturday, a revised draft. Sunday, final draft.
That's my plan, anyway.
Saint Marty may need a little more inspiration tonight. There's some Bailey's Irish Cream in the cupboard.
Bells on our eyelashes
and the death throes of words,
and I among fields of speech,
a knight on a horse made of dirt.
My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,
and I, under the skin of words,
on the beaming banks of foam,
a poet who sang and died
leaving this singed elegy
before the faces of poets,for birds at the edge of sky.