I feel awful at the moment. Unwell, out-of-sorts, topsy-turvy and slightly shop-soiled. And so naturally I turn to R. D. Laing for succour (!!) and inspiration.
This is all you are going to get out of me tonight.
It’s awful. I’m awful. This whole 30 poems thing is awful. God is dead, Marx is dead and I don’t feel too good myself.
I feel awful.
I feel guilty that I feel awful.
I feel angry that I’m guilty of feeling awful.
I turn my anger inwards.
Which makes me feel awfuller.
And then I worry that I might feel shame.
And then I think I should feel shame.
And feel guilty that I don’t.
And that’s awful.