Write drunk, they say, and edit sober They don’t say whether to edit hungover Recycle the empties And recycle the emptiness And when the demons come (And they will come) To steal your pens and hide your files To crowd the corners of your eyes To rob you of compass and courage To steal your one and only perfect notebook Sing to them, and sing again, and scatter some crumbs at the door Sharpen your quills by lanternlight, whale oil smoking Sharpen your stanzas with strop and flint Go for a walk in a wood Give your ravings to the jackdaws, they will listen For your words have both feathers and claws Make your paper from the pulp of your heroes You don’t need them anymore So write what you know And what you don’t know And write what you know that you don’t know and most especially Write what you don’t know that you don’t know Get lost in a city, get lost in a room Lose yourself upon that empty page The maze from which you cannot be recovered Bones left to moulder in chambers and corners Until your skull rattles in the dark, saying Yes, I see it now, I’m ready And you reach with fleshless fingers for the notebook There is no such thing as a perfect notebook They are all perfect.
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