This is the pattern:
I write a poem/story/drabble. I look at it. I either decide it's shit and file it away, or I think 'hmm, this isn't bad, I'll have to save it for my Srs Riting Biznes'
None of which works well for you blog readers. Sorry. But... BUT!! I had The Block the other day (well actually for several days, it's been tough since I finished my play really) and wrote this on the IPod on a bus into town. It's too drabbly to be a proper poem and too random to really do anything with so you all get some love! I promise I'll do you a bit more.
Writer’s Block. Writers BLOCK.
Writers’ Bloc (somewhere in London.
Somewhere in Lebanon)
Eastern Bloc. COCK BLOCK.
children’s blocks.
Write through it they say.
Find a way to make the words flow.
Use pot.
Use post-its.
Use meth.
Use LSD.
Find a muse but never in a museum
(because that’s plagiarism).
My lover is in Somethingshire. It is alright.
I will return. We will be together
(not really).
Locked in our own bones, our skin.
Good thing too, lots of infections out there, lots of monsters
I mean people.
I mean monsters.
Penetrate.
Non sequiteur but sex is allowed;
I am only eighteen. Trying to escape
our bones
Stick it in. In in in in IN IN IN!
Fucking to freedom.
Did I win a prize? Off to the clinic
for you
Monkey boy. Monkey boy.
Small thing.
Besos, TK
