hic homo, non ille, est malusIt is now eight in the evening; todayI have eaten half a crusty baguette thickly smeared with duck and orange paté. This was prepared by someone who still loves me, despite all. Today I have drunk rather a lot of wine. Perhaps I should try to write a book, one of those moral yet practical tomes which seek to turn others from the path to perdition. Today, it would not be a book engendered in the hard yet rosy climb-back after the descent, but hammered out during the slide, copiously larded with anecdotal evidence of the ease with which you can fuck up lives, a realisation which can come before you hit rock bottom. Today I know there is no chance of success. I am a little man, not known to be a poet nor a philosopher nor an actor nor a journalist nor a politician nor a gay icon nor a celluloid macho man. Today, I am not an object of desire to culture-vultures. Tomorrow, it will be too late to bother. Press the play button to hear the poem URL: www.mourne.org/endgame.htm |
