Who would be a poet, writer or scribe in the modern world?

How much more exciting and soul destroying

it must have been in days when Kerouac could slump over a typewriter

and bang his head in withdrawn frustration

on the polished and

d

e

n

t

e

d

desk.

The pile of A4 paper to his left , ever dwindling, never being pregnant with word

upon word, upon life sentence, instead cluttering up the floor

in a moon scarred landscape that defeats the purpose