Tag: writing

Just sitting and writing at the table because

My desk has too many books on it and other Shit and suddenly there’s a knock at the door I pretend I’m not in I want to write I want There’s banging at the door and it gets loud In my head and so I’m getting up to go to

I put on my headphones like ear muffs and wait

For the quiet buzz leg moving shifting chair creaking Like a metronome that fails every thirteenth beat Gin trickling down my gullet feels like its behind the Heart and my throat is rocks limestone warm knees Under the robe warm knee under knee aching finger Spiderweb headaches snot dribbling at

U have to read to write good

So sometimes I like to read And go into their dreams I feel the grass like the wind In Dylan Thomas and everything Smells of semen he’s always Talking about salt and ears Of corn and things I hear his Deep voice imagine Welsh Baritone or just booming or Hungry

Don’t Equate Me

The same Grammarly ad five times 25 minutes The same grammarly ad ten times an hour 25 miles of grammarly source code can’t tell me that inconsistent capitals, no full stops random line breaks, can’t tell me How to improve lazy and bleeding noise – Is a cover up: 6

Anohter [sic]

There’s not much better on a Sunday Five layers of salt smell wafting Midday activities pleasurably concluded And a 2ltr cider resting on the table there Pristine before the implosion, pristine And then the week comes with the best Dirt, and the days roll on – cheap fabrics Cut under

Smooth Cider Like Syrup, in Tankard

Because it brings me dreams of green Those fillings between hop fields and farm lads Toiling with their flagons over shoulder and a mean Wage, hairy youth which sup on apples The trees in the wind with that summer pollen Breathing through worms and fruits of the morning Spurned through

I’m Not

Butcher boy you cut it to an act Some divine spark a mere and disgusting event In your fearful eyes and me some stunted stag, The gore of your knife-wielding hunter Splat on my little horns, mocking us both

Computer work

Computers do strange things to your art You can’t rip a file I mean you can rip it off a cd apparently But you can’t tear it in half – you have to give it somebody Once something’s written down you can’t hide from the reality You either accept it

About Romantic Odds

(a drunk normally writes too simply for anyone) It doesn’t matter but you didn’t come I barely asked you to but you didn’t You didn’t answer and you didn’t I sat for two hours with two beers You would disapprove I didn’t talk but I got some good reading Charles

Quickie

The secret is not to create mercilessly But to make what other people thought They only knew privately – When you show them something they Felt inside and quiet and alone It’s like a magick trick except Instead of pulling a coin from behind An ear it’s a heart from

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