Pressure

Shakespeare was a smug bastard
using up all the words
making up his own,
getting them in the right order
every damn time;
call it pressure,
call it what you will,
stare at it from a distance
through fresh-cut crystal bourbon,
through caffeine loaded spirals,
nail it to the darkness
of snow white A4 – naked or bound,
turn on me,
turn on yourself,
watch the adverts, add ice,
a dash of spice, a dance of lime;
pull the ticker tape through,
write down the words that mean
something for tomorrow,
phone your agent, burn the rest,
don’t call it pressure,
call it love,
call it what it is
me, you,
leaving nothing on the page
but burn marks
and fading bourbon circles
every damn time,
using up all the words,
making up our own;
Shakespeare was a smug bastard

3 Comments

Filed under Poems

3 responses to “Pressure

  1. He certainly was! But one has a feeling he would give a nod to the rebellion in your words. 😇

  2. Jim

    I was daft / brave enough to be filmed reciting it in front of the Globe Theatre but he I think he would’ve appreciated my efforts.

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