Hello…
Many, many apologies for the lack of new posts on this blog. My trusty £85 computer which got me through my degree finally gave up on me last week, spluttering and coughing sparks onto my hands. This has resulted in me being unable to do much in the way of writing creatively (a vast source of annoyance to me as much to you, gentle reader) or any of the other important online pursuits that make up my day. Anyway, I wrote a poem this morning from the office after having a particularly strange dream last night.
FLATLANDS.
To pick your fruit from chimney stacks
Is a quiet, steaming trigger.
The trees are slimming at the waist,
Applying whorish rouges
To their splitting seed pouches.
We stepped on mossy linoleums
To creep, hard-toed onto grass.
The garden is heaving with
Rinds and hammers,
Lubricant and whale-bone.
You scratched your favourite words
In ashes on the pavement.
Like your red-haired friend
Who knew a boy who died, once.
Loss on a martini glass.
The soot-flooded twig still lies there,
A testament to your good times.
I remember you flailing, bound
In hankerchiefs and father’s rule,
Stuck in hilltop houses.
And so, I sat down for breakfast,
Waited for you to descend
With arms piled high with chimney stacks
(Stolen from the more deserving)
On which to chip my teeth.
