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[28 Apr 2008|10:55am] |
I think Rebecca is becoming like a running gag, not that I think of her as material for me to use so cheaply as such. It's just that she is at the moment a quantum character, meaning she is not one thing or the other until I actually find out. If I do find out, I might be entirely surprised. I'd like to find out. I have a stormy sea that needs to settle. I'm a little boy, sitting in a crouch on the seashore at six in the morning, sandy knees and dragging a stick into the ground...dragging my lover's name, and the sea keeps washing in and concealing it.
Still, it makes it more amusing, I suppose. I've changed a lot even in one year. I had a look, one year since. My writing was excellent then, better than it is now. But I feel happier now. Even amidst the confusion of my head I feel better off.
Today, more work, more exercise, perhaps. I don't know yet.
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[28 Apr 2008|11:17am] |
Good letter.
"Dear Rebecca.
Your touch would cause earthquakes on my skin, you would pull up my roots, crumble my hardened skin into dust around me, set fire to my fields, passion inflamed"
Bad Letter
"If I was a monkey, in your cage, i'd be fiddling with myself in front of the public by now. I am the chucklestick to your gigglehole. If I could, i'd be whitewashing your interior right now, spraying a leek and potato fuzz all over your bus shelter. Permit me this, you horny miss, and i'll wham my naughty gearstick in your funky slit."
Hooray!
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[28 Apr 2008|06:07pm] |
Poetry dot com often tell me of my new levels of grandeur related to my one single poem. You know, the one they tried to use to con me into buying a heap of old shit. My beautiful poem Ink Roads, that I wrote three years ago about my relationship break up, told through the metaphor of a "truck full of ink" bleeding into the road. Put simply, it's all about the pain of writing about splitting up with someone you love.
It was and still is a personal and special piece to me, even now. I regret ever putting it on their site, because it's been treated like a whore.
I should never have done that. I am sorry, Ink Roads.
Now, they're telling me i'm a poetry ambassador. Presumably, this is a lofty status, for someone who eats pies and wears a Mighty Boosh shirt, and wanks all the time. I can't wait until they tell me i'm the new chosen deity of poetry. Shakespeare will be shitting himself.
Fuck you, Poetry.com.
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[28 Apr 2008|08:47pm] |
This is a dirty poem. It's a dirty poem about dirty things. Don't read it, because you will be forever ruined.
Hello Miss,
permit me to say this,
that the stink of my piss,
and the spunk all over this,
is my form of bliss,
I feel with your kiss,
as I shit out my bumhole,
I think of your cunt,
oh, what I would shove up it,
I don't mean to be blunt,
you could finger my ring,
and put my cock in a sling,
so let me drink your piss,
you filthy miss
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