The last couple of weeks have been a bit of a mess – both literally and metaphorically. Puppies, it turns out, are just as bad for your sleeping habits as babies, unsurprisingly. But more on that later. For now, here’s a poem. These days, roadtrips always make me want to write.
This land is like the crackle and the hiss
Of a drag on a cigarette.
It burns the air right out of my lungs,
And I am left with nothing but ash on my tongue.
From ashes we came and so quickly ashes we become
When there is nothing but scorched earth
to scrabble from.
Spat out of the sea, in this place,
God, I’m dying of thirst.