When they said I should write some music, little did they know how hopelessly lacking I am.
there is no gift for me there.

So instead I write.

Stuff. An extract...

The thing that it has been
Is not as it shall be
And not as it should be

I discern faults and cracks among the surfaces
and among the faces there are gourds
and shells of eggs
and pickle jars
and horses
with feet of clay and eyes alight with dust