Friday, 13 November 2015


The dry paper, the plain white, dry paper.
And to write I must stain.
With my tears and my blood,
The dry paper.

I take a knife and open a vein,
And the blood runs onto the dry paper.
I scrawl with my finger but wait.
I’ve lost it and I start again.

I take a sharper knife and I try a second vein,
And again I scrawl, across the dry paper.
And I write until the blood is dry.

Oh yes, it’s so easy to write.
With dry blood, on dry paper,
From a dry vein.

First published in Wilson P.  (Ed.) (1993) Poetry Now regional anthologies: Central.  Poetry Now of Peterborough.

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