Why don’t you sit down and write more?
Inspiration is flowing,
You just need the opportunities,
I’m too busy sabotaging myself,
Look out of the window—
What about it? Oh—
What the hell!?
As I look across to the neighbour’s shed,
Glowing in cruel white lighting from their security light,
As I zoom in to stare at the one broken window panel,
A little square of black holding imagined horrors,
A little square of black, holding—
A pallid arm,
Reaching across the gap,
Grasping at the frame with its wiry claw,
Oh shit, have I locked the backdoor?
And I run across the kitchen tiles,
The keys, the keys… there on the worktop,
In the lock, turn the lock…
Slip-slapping clammy footsteps pattering,
Across the patio,
Pull the handle up—
I jump back as it smashes against the glass,
Arms flailing and jaw gaping terribly, sliming the frosted window pane,
Rotting body juices dripping down the door,
A strained body-scream shattering the night,
Shattering what’s left of my sanity,
And it moves out of sight…
Moves off to the left and up…
The upstairs windows!
And I freeze,
Clattering and clanging of the rusty iron drainpipe,
Thuddering steps swiftly across the ceiling,
Unstoppable footsteps pounding down the stairs,
Oh shit, oh shit…
I should’ve double-bagged it.