I got a long and winding voicemail the other morning, the day had been long, my hangover on the opposite end of winding down, or so it seemed, but either way this may just turn out to be the real beginning, as always I could only pray
A voicemail from a good, good poet, young enough and with fingers in all of the right pies, clearly more than able when it came to sidestepping an early demise, with a hell of a lot of pride in place, eager-faced, perfectly pock-marked, a literary shark
Obviously enough this was interesting, something that put that all too hungry glint back in my eye, of course I was as eager as ever myself to make it
I popped a beer, steering myself furthermore left of centre, adamant on listening to that voicemail, words that would render my art worthwhile, a snail-trace of hope, finally getting to say that it was worth ALL of the late-night slog, numerous days filled with a most dreadful and atrociously diluted fog, never knowing which way I was going, I undoubtedly need that book, now more than ever, more often than not questioning myself, morals, wondering if I might really be prepared to do all that it took
As things turned out, this good, good poet had given me a shout for just one reason, to ask for my advice owing to the fact that his mind had more recently been feeling poisonously peppered, sliced and diced, leaving him with a good plus an equally bad side
Bad, bad depression, desperate for me to pull him away from his present turmoil, a shameful writer’s block situation, his girlfriend by his side but letting him down, seeing his frown for failure
What would he do, talk to her through a medicated slew whilst grabbing at olive branches, maybe it’s all that she deserves
I’m sure she’ll make it inside one of his books, when push comes to shove, one way or other, even if she’s not the one who gets to satisfy his mother, a memorable father

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