Some days it doesn't come so easy. At the weekend, I spent almost an hour coming up with the exact and perfect three lines of dialogue I needed to plug the last hole in episode one.
Not that they really are exact and perfect. But they feel good and I worked hard to win them.
To loosen up the imagination muscles, I'm taking a little time out to automatic write.
So here's today's poem, composed on bus#2, drawn from subconscious impressions stirred by the external stimulae around me! Dedicated to all Maggot Farmers. Mwah.
The girl in the lift with an arm around her shoulders cannot see the worms that jitter on her eyes.
In the mirror I can watch her from a dislocated distance as the children pilot cloud-yachts in the skies.
Summer cyclops, hammer lights upon those golden doors that close upon me;
Separate her braids from me, from children plunging pins in newts;
From them, their armour wrought of my affections, sanded, blast to glass which hides and still reveals.
And scalded; lies like toxic fruits.
Should the beacons light her perfume, rosy rising, lifting higher?
Should the cycles skip in fire, paraded on a stony square?
Should the glitter on her fingers kill her instantly?
Should I row them to an island raised on matchstick stilts and corn?
In the musty lake of needles, drowning breathless under sails,
All my answers shed their veils as you ignite my lips with thorns.
Do The Hard Work of Publishing
2 days ago
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