It’s nanowrimo
But I got no novel in me, no.
Nothing new here you know,
I am not versed in the long form, so…

Mine are short pieces
Bolts of what I’d like to call brilliance
It’s a jaunty decadence
Of words and sounds

It lacks discipline.
Its cadence is jerky, uneven.
How I wish I had lived and seen
Enough to write, of hell or heaven.

My lines are short, you see.
Like the long breath I held so briefly
They jump and dry easily
Nothing flows from me.

No story, no intrigue
Just this vague music
A faint, broken heartbeat
Hooves of a wild horse. Sweet,

Afraid, yet untamed.
No I don’t write no novel, oi!
I said no plot, no cunning ploy.

My pen is claimed
By idle reverie,
Jeux de mots and poetry.

I got no novel in me…