(no subject)
Poetry
A Wringing-Out of Musty Handkerchiefs
That awkward moment when you write a poem and you can't put it on your blog because it is blatantly bitter angry personal shit and you wrote it because something jolted you and made you remember, like when you have a rotten piece of crap badly-covered up by some carpet in the back of a van and you knock it and the carpet comes up; or you catch a scab on something fairly innocuous and it pulls up and you get this momentary glimpse of something ugly and sickly-coloured and not at all healed and you think ARE YOU EVER GOING TO HEAL but instead of putting Savlon on it you just try to resettle the scab and wrap the whole thing in an dirty plaster and pretend it isn't there.
Or, a poem.
A Wringing-Out of Musty Handkerchiefs
That awkward moment when you write a poem and you can't put it on your blog because it is blatantly bitter angry personal shit and you wrote it because something jolted you and made you remember, like when you have a rotten piece of crap badly-covered up by some carpet in the back of a van and you knock it and the carpet comes up; or you catch a scab on something fairly innocuous and it pulls up and you get this momentary glimpse of something ugly and sickly-coloured and not at all healed and you think ARE YOU EVER GOING TO HEAL but instead of putting Savlon on it you just try to resettle the scab and wrap the whole thing in an dirty plaster and pretend it isn't there.
Or, a poem.