The writing did begin again
Yet first to tell of a significant oversight
The black dog took me at my word
I left my job, I sought other pleasures
I left my wife, my two beautiful children
For twelve months I lived in Devon
For twelve more months of heaven
I lived on the Channel Island of Jersey
I want to tell you this because this is where
The poetry of poetry came into existence
It is from where it still on occasion hails from
Fuelled by high-octane selfish obsession
Energised by compulsive desires; my needs
Confirmed in those peak-experience moments
The poems are endless, even now
Years after our time together crumbled
Crumbled, burned; in a harshly distasteful way
I could not reach her
I cannot reach her
I should not reach her
Yet once I had breached her
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