What kind?
Deterioration in old age?
Alcoholic self-destruction?
Suddenly losing one’s mind
in a classic nervous breakdown?
Does a poet rot on the page?
Do the words turn wildly
incomprehensible, or
just banal? At what stage
is one seen to be writing rot?
Does a brain rot mildly,
or in a dramatic burst?
Does it short out, bang!
just like that, or turn over idly
with not enough spark?
Does it jerk about first
like a landed fish flapping?
Does it crumble obediently, or shout
in defiance, ‘No! Do your worst!’
as it disintegrates?
Will the rot catch me napping
or will there be signs?
Will sense leak away quietly,
or pulverise, as from the zapping
of a rapid-fire weapon?
Perhaps all these lines
of repetitive questions
reveal the truth already,
as the poem defines
a sad lack of fresh thinking?
When the ideas don't flow freely, I turn to form. This is a Weave, a form invented by David James.
Written for Friday Writings #161 at Poets and Storytellers United, where Magaly invites us to incorporate the phrase I've used as a title.
