Poem rewritten without coffee

[1] Poem written without coffee with a pen running out of ink will be dull and invisible like this simile. Like coffee the inkless nib leaves an impression, albeit more or less permanent - i.e. unlike the nib coffee's imprint is as if a fingernail was pressed to your arm, whereas the nib's print you see as long as you pay attention to it, though it may be centuries before it becomes re-revealed under ultraviolet. So too coffee fades with the day, only to reassert its self later in bed, when you cannot sleep but for thinking how to rework this poem. Poem written without coffee is not diuretic but I can only make so many lines run on without it. Without ink this pen comes to an end doing what it did best, to eke what mark it could. If this pen had a cup of coffee, the ink might flow. This pen is dehydrated, it has run out of juice. I cannot rehydrate it my glass of water is of no use - ink is oil-based, decanted at Altona, freighted through the night to specialist chemists to dilute, titrate, tint etc. They drink coffee in their laboratory or take no-doz which does not precipitate so many visits to the lavatory. Without ink how am I going to write this poem without coffee? Poem written without coffee won't inhibit iron uptake. My handwriting looks neat this pome must be compleat I should make a cup of coffee. Inkless nib and coffee are waves that cancel each other out or compound amplitude according to their phase. Coffee: A pastoral - a mild imitation like chicory, which has its own great taste better than the original, or just as bitter at least... The elipsis is someone who won't drink water without cordial, who drinks instant with sugar when thirsty, who pisses more than he drinks. I must stay moist. With this water shall mine kidneys keep flushed. If you keep walking over the same spot you kill what's underfoot, you create a path. If I write over the same word, though not following the exact same track, with or without ink I will wear through this paper. Piss is thought so I take a piss then make myself a coffee. [2] Poem written making coffee composed in my head anticipating a poem written with coffee with a pen that works, works? I finished this. By the stove a shopping list. I took a sip, added sugar. Hot it is. To be a reply. Thought making this orange Charmander mug of joe I keep sipping of how Adam fought with his daughter - not fought, struggled - as they walked. Poem written with coffee focuses more on the coffee. Who can say? I go looking for a biscuit. There's another in the pot. There are none. A narrow path through regrowth identifying iron bark by the texture of its bark - thick, split, black. Poem written with coffee is a little less worried about being dull. My glass is empty. Soon I will have to piss and go shopping. Poem written with coffee has random-ish lines - not so much non sequiturs as dislocated rejoinders. Poem written with coffee wants to keep going but I won't let it it says. Now it is an it it seems - it it it it it... I think you are right we should get another cup. Poem wants more coffee. Reads the news. Yesterday. What happened to my poem without coffee, can I work on it with coffee? Wool, said the poem. Cotton. That was when we climbed The Monk. [3] I got another cup of coffee. And changed pens. And changed pens. You noticed. Poem written with another coffee in a different pen, in red, I am soon rewriting in blue talks to itself and is bitter, like this coffee. Why the change of tack? Would you call it that, tack? Can you build over two titles? A sleeping living side and a plumbed one. Plums. Plum trees down our side if the camelias die. I am not keeping track of every thought for you, said the poem. Poem written with another coffee leaves an aftertaste cooler, went down quick I need a glass of water What will happen to the rest of the day? Maybe more. Poem written with another coffee creates indecisions, opens diversions. It did end up dull. It became one of those drug excursions the Lizard King got so fond of. I need a glass of water and a piss. It seems to curl in on itself like a screwy old solipsist's false serendipity - I take a quick shit, this poem has run out... where? The window probably. If I were to chase it I'd come back home with a bunch of stuff from the op shop like a large orange hat slash cat cubby slash giant cabbage moth egg. Poem written with another coffee just makes my head feel tight. Poem written with another coffee becomes gibberish and/or garble as radio at the other end of the house does. Poem written with another coffee makes me forget things - the invisible ink, the invisible poem. The postman comes to mind, 'Is this what you do all day?' Dehydration begins well and truly before you piss. I have phone calls to make [4] cryptic assessment: Poem with too much coffee ends as a series of tos and fros frustrated at a call to Nth Rd Medical Clinic for results on which the receptionist says the doctor wrote, No Action. Poem rewritten without or with coffee comes unto an end soon enough. All of this to be rewritten? Poem written with coffee has indents to lose.