Every Sinne Is
When he was lying with me, he told me he wanted to write again. He said it’s been years, didn’t say how many, since he wrote about anything but God. Doing that can get boring or it can get heavy. He wanted to have some fun again. He was restless. He explained to me that all the poets do these visits, take the people they want. I didn’t know that. He got a bit mardy after I asked who the best or the most popular was. He held nothing back. Wordsworth’s not worth the time he takes. Rochester’s filthy but he’s rubbish. Plath was just for women, limp, miserable. He said he was the best but of course he’d say that. He wouldn’t say he was the worst. I think I knocked his pride a bit just asking.
By Tim Scott.