The Beggar Poet's Hexagram 18: Work on What has been Spoiled

[stevef]

I leave dirty utensils overnight,
neglect the garden
overgrown with weeds


paint
is peeling and mould covers the ceiling.


The birth of a child
in the neighbourhood holds no interest.
I couldn't care
whether it lives or dies
as long as I don’t have to hear its needy cries
or the father berating its stupidity.


Literature stored under the sink
resonates with poverty


stale
and derivative,
with excessive adjectives


the imperative to describe insect’s feet
passed on to another equally as inept,
equally as forgettable


it should be burnt and the ashes scattered.



Window panes rattle,
a draught enters a crack in the floorboards


I shall clean every surface, circulate
a spider’s web


dig out the weeds.


Moonbeams illuminate the hole
I am meant to patch


tomorrow, I promise,
I’ll take a present
to the mother


chocolate wrapped in a leaf.


The night ghost rises from concealment
and watches blood form, approaches a raindrop
and looks at an eye


I’ll appear
in different places


taste white in the clouds,
sink into an old pond




move a stalk
because my pincers hold fast.