Not just poems, not just poems, this is the mantra that repeats in my head as I paw over my laptop and commence chasing that annoying little flashing line away by fingering ,not so random, keys in the hope that something not dull or vomit inducing will end up in it’s place. It’s constant and unflinching behaviour makes me feel sorry for people who find themselves in one of those boats where you have the misfortune to have some bloke, who is presumably either not good enough to row or stinks of piss, shouting “stroke” with a mixture of Brian Blessed volume and metronomic persistance. Blink blink blink, It may as well be shouting type type type, that tiny almost insignificant cursor, insatiable minitaure bastard more like. So why do I sit here subjecting myself to it’s pulsing whim, catering for it’s demands with sentence after sentence of sacrificial offerings, safe in the knowledge that it will never be appeased? I will tell you. I have so much crap floating around inside my skull that I really need to empty it all out now and again, otherwise I fear my ears would leak random words in a kind of gloopy mix of blood, brain matter and earwax, resembling a sort of mental alphabetti spaghetti (no artificial colourings). I don’t imagine Vanish would get that stain out from the shoulders of my tee shirt. So my choices seem to be; a) stand on street corners shouting random nonsense at passers by, b) writing random nonsense in as amusing and articulate a manner as a man of my limited education can manage,or c) go on dragons den and try to get money for a contraption that attaches to the shoulders and catches brain gloop thus preventing stains. Not much of choice is it? So I shall continue to suffer the curse of the cursor. It can not be erased, backspaced or deleted and you won’t see it’s end ’til your work is completed. Damn it, not just poems, not just poems, not just poems…
