burying holes (take #2), 16th February 2017

I tried to write some words then some more words and some more and every time I tried to write they grew as heavy as the soil from the holes of which the words seemed to be about, about holes and more holes, lots of holes everywhere and then some of those holes were filled in with earth turned inside out while others stayed gaping, open, space, empty, and I walked between them on old, seasoned planks of wood, bits of wood slightly greyed with bits of moss and lichen hanging off them and it didn’t seem to make a difference how poetic or prose-worthy or sharply or bluntly meaningful I tried to make it, it felt leaden, laboured, lumbering, one long tedious clumsy stumbling through yawningly tired adjectives, nevertheless these holes kept appearing and I felt compelled to fill them in with anything, whatever came to hand or pen, shape them and make them tell me something despite them being empty voids, just space hanging uncomfortably framed in my overbearing cajoling to say something, do something, show something, anything, but a hole is a hole until its filled in then its covered up hiding anything it might’ve revealed under anonymous heaps of detritus, and see, look I’m still trying to squeeze something from nothing, wringing out thin air til it’s so thin it vanishes into…. thin air…

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