One night I thought to myself: if I write a verse on the wall in eyeliner, I’ll be committed to my art and will finally view myself as a serious poet. I woke up the next morning facing this violation of my tenancy agreement: “Vandals will be confronted with a decent dent in their deposit repayment,” it warned. I also had a touch of hangover.
I’m not sure how much this little episode taught me about poetry or being a poet or trying to christen oneself a poet, but I did learn that Wilkinson sells excellent cheap brilliant white paint that isn’t too fumey to sleep next to as it dries.
I got my full deposit back – that’s the real poetry.