Apparent Failure: A Triptych
The Best Hamlet of his Generation:
Hard times, neglect, or the corrosive dollar
Have reduced X to the hack boffin
In a B horror flick, emotions gamut
Dwindled to a single look, his script
The odd cliché between special effects
For which only howls and screams are needed:
Manqué, manqué, manqué, leers the subtext,
Below criticism, just short of porn.
The Rimbaud of his Year: Spurred on
By praise he never dreamed might be insincere
Also in the pipeline a bildungsroman
Publishers are yet to queue up to print
Here in the lengthening interim
Y peddles TEFL to reluctant ears:
Muse in mothballs, his voice turned droning curse,
He sweeps errors from languages bottom floor
For more than hed ever get perfecting verse.
Legs gone, heart going, Z meanwhile ponders
Missing medals, ungraced podiums...
Pole packed away, an overgrown wand,
That world-beating vault is forty years
In the run-up as, with a gasp, he clears
The bar of his own body; still inside his chair,
Feels himself soar on into the blackness
Where no newspaper has been before
Last is first, less seems more, failure success.
Martin Bennett | Mudlark No. 12
Contents | After Cézanne