I open as Sylvia Plath

Awake, Askew

Cock my eye

Morning Dew

By breakfast I am Ginsberg

My cereal howls

Sex and Jazz

Trashcans rust and curl

I leave the house as Wordsworth

And wonder lonely through a crowd

Arrive at the track as Bukowski

Gamble on the lunchtime horses

Smoking a cigarette

While outside

A sparrow sings

As the day wears on

I am Cummings

Los(i)

Ng

A#%l

Lsen

Se;

Of tim(e)

Then I notice the colours of the day

As a tanka master

Grasping at Scarlet,
Umber, Crimson and Auburn
Autumn delivers
A placid melancholy
At odds with its warming hues

I head for home as Angelou

Aint nothing gonna bring me down

Because I am a lion

And you sure gonna hear me roar

I eat my dinner as Robert Frost

At my oaken table

Whilst being able

To rhyme for once

To rhyme for once

But as night time closes

My voice creeps in

As Stuart Buck

Above the din

The doubts and fears

Smash through the voice

And I sympathise

With all those prayers

That go unanswered

But I would say

In His defence

Being creative is tiring.