Writer's Block

Here I sit smoking my pipe,
phlegm collecting in my throat,
phantom squeeze low down my side
where my appendix should be
with the rest of my intestines,
slimy wet meat discharged thanks to
surgical meddling.
Late at night drumming words on a laptop
not knowing where to head, idle and sidle
with long pauses, looking for something
to prick the roof of my intellect and pimp
celestial intervention but beside the vague
shadowy outlines of a twin-towered cathedral
in a brown and tarred anonymous city pitched
to a latrine yellow sky with undertones of
severed emotions rumbling underneath its
forsaken mask... not a thing.
Now even the visions no longer persist,
the words roll out deliberately, precise,
construed to run after the liberating ending for
fear that the task will be huge and similar to an epos.
Failed writer, grounded in the sauna of his imaginations,
lazy, proud wishes that looks for manicure, yet the arm
is heavy and lost the aptitude to device the scissors.
So by this final note rest but an indifferent stare
and the relief that it is over.