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[29 Dec 2006|12:25am] |
Writing poetry is a nightmare. Writing poetry is hard. It's a thing you can only really do if you know what's going on in your head.
Let's say you're going to write a poem. You've got a central concept, you've got an idea. You've got a heart to let fly, you've got a head full of beer. Like I have.
It still doesn't matter, if you're not in the right flow. It doesn't work. It's like trying to feed bombs to a field mouse. It just don't work, brother.
I've been wanting to write a poem for ages. But since old things ran out, i've not been able to write a thing that came from me. I need sense, sex, love, magic, breath, hb, and travel, highs and lows. I don't give a shit, that i'm doing well, that i'm not looking back. Yeah, i'm proud, really proud. I'm proud I can't find the words any more, because if I could I could not get on with things. If I wrote a poem now about things that inspire me, i'd be regressing, looking back. I'd be back in the midst of mist.
And I ain't going back. It wouldn't move my writing on if I did. It would look good, but it would look like I was thinking back. And that's no good.
So no, no more poems about me, in the past. That's what 2007 is about. New people, new times, new flights.
Yer, see the Guiness is a thick, treacly drink. It has taken it's fair share of cells out of me, i'm tired, and outta sorts. I'm not thinking straight. I'm too tired, most of the time to bother. But i'm not that tired that I don't feel. I just feel when i'm working, or drinking. When i'm here i'm so flaked out I can't get a sentence.
But they're there. They're just not welding. I can't string them together. So frustrating.
My most beautiful poem was a thing about words bleeding into a road, like an oil spill. It could win me awards. It had me. Now, I can't think of a thing.
Sex is like god, but god is something I don't believe in. This is my problem. I ghost between themes of the real and the unreal, the things I believe and the things I wish I could believe. Why only something like a diety could make something like sex, but could also make something like war, famine, genocide, death, and age. Cancer, plague, disproportionate wealth. Yet, creates love, empathy, feeling.
You see, these things create a well in my head. My little head. My pin-head. A head so full of ideas, that none present themselves with a firm enough case to be heard with full clarity. That makes me feel like a dunce. Yet, i'd die happy with a true love and a case full of Guiness.
Ain't that funny, eh?
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