The Wreckage Of Language Poem by Paul W

a perfectly polished table
reflecting the nightlight
is where I try and write,
the moth-eaten curtains
obscure the daylight,
my rival hides in the pen
I push limply up and down
the empty page
nonsense stains,
I consolidate my rage
in the least words possible,
mongoose skins hang
from the walls,
fact driven enterprise,
crass flavours,
dimwit behaviours
fall upon the pages
in front of me,
the wreckage of language,
fragmented
washes up on the shore
of my A4 paper
alphabet soup
don't taste so good
when you're
lost for words