Captured above to maintain format.

It’s been several days now

since I sat staring at this empty page;

waiting for the bombs to drop

to erase this void space.



Thinking of those hot days and nights in Rhodes;

thinking how I wasn’t scared of the future then,

wondering why I can’t get back there again;

Thinking how I got to here

and how impossible it feels to leave;



Thinking about the word collectors,

those saviours,

thinking about nouns;


~ How to make good to be better ~


How I would bake bread

in my safe European home;

Thinking why those memories cling

more than the achievements and disappointments since;



I never flew Hurricanes in Greece;

The only huns I fought were toy soldiers

and I always sided with the underdogs and losers;



Coincidence is telling me that it’s time

to start reading Proust;

Hoping for a revelation that will put me straight

and clear the fog…

as the bombs keep dropping all around others,

the blood spills across this empty page;

The word collector erased

throwing his life into the fire.


It’s been several days now.

The poem above was written for the first part of the W3 prompt #163. I was also inspired by Reena’s Xploration Challenge #385 using the phrase ‘word collector’.

The line ‘How I would bake bread in my safe European home’ is a reference to a time when I was about 12 and, with the help of my mother, I started baking bread. As I was obsessed with the Clash at the time I baked some bread rolls that spelled out the letters C-L-A-S-H, ‘Safe European Home’ being a song from their second album.

The line ‘I never flew Hurricanes in Greece’ is a reference to Roald Dahl and his book ‘Going Solo’ about his time as a fighter pilot in WWII. I just finished reading his book today. The mention of Proust is because I will start reading ‘In Search of Lost Time’ soon.

This poem is about not knowing what to write, knowing what to write, knowing what is important and the futility in sharing a few words with a few people.

The second part involves running it through the N+7 machine, where I have taken the following extracts to recompose, revise and make this new poem:

Captured above to maintain format.

The Underclass

It’s been several daylights now
since I sat staring at this empty pain;
waiting for the butchers of duty
to erase this void spoken.

Thought of those hot daylights and nightmares in Rhodes;
I thought how I wasn’t scared of the game then,
wondering why I can’t get basis there again;
Time – how I got to here
and how important it feels to leave;

Thunder about the word collectors
those saviours
threaten about nouns

~ How to make goodbye to be better ~

How I would bake breath
in my safe European honesty;
Thought why those menaces cling
more than the acquaintance of discipline since;

I never flew hysterical in grief;
The only huns I fought were trial sorrows
and I always sided with the underclass and loyal

Combination is telling me that it’s tone
to state reality, Proust!;
Hoping for a riot, that witch put me straight
and cleared the form…
as the books keep dropping all around outlines,
the body spills across this empty pain;

The word collector erased
throwing his lifetime into the fireplace
(throwing his lip into the flesh).

It’s been several delights now.