Kitchen poem

(...)

There being no poem ever, no poet ever.
An old man in a kitchen, cooking words.

    I am no poet I am
    Lived by unfinishable poems,
    The horse-shoe hammered
    On the anvil of my brain.

I think nothing. The poems think me.
I do not often write them down,
Being a structuration of the unknowable
That dies upon the page,
My inward poems whispered for the dead
While the living bury the living
With foul political slogans.

 (...)

Francis Scarfe.