<larkin's "neurotics"> 2003-09-25.3:45 a.m. Neurotics Philip Larkin No one gives you a thought, as day by day You drag your feet, clay-thick with misery. None think how stalemate in you grinds away, Holding your spinning wheels an inch too high To bite on earth. The mind, it's said, is free: But not your minds. They, rusted stiff, admit Only what will accuse or horrify, Like slot-machines only bent pennies fit. So year by year your tense unfinished faces Sink further from the light. No one pretends To want to help you now. For interest passes Always towards the young and more insistent, And skirts locked rooms where a hired darkness ends Your long defence against the non-existent. back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad