On the writing process. (2008)

Sit on the hard wooden chair, stare at the cluttered desk and the blank page. Pick up a pencil. Hold it, hovering, above the paper, considering the right word. The perfect word to begin the story. Realise that the pencil is not perfectly sharp. It is adequate, but not optimum. Root through stacks of paper and drawers full of junk for a sharpener. Find it hidden in a jar of odds and ends. Get up, go to the bin, sharpen the pencil to a deadly point.

Return slowly to the chair. Sit down. The paper is still blank. Create something brilliant. You are not good enough. Nothing you write will ever be perfect. Your words are clichés; nothing original or insightful could come from a mind as weak as yours.

Snap the pencil in half and throw the splintered parts across the room. They bounce off the walls leaving graphite grey impact marks. Stand slowly again and stumble to the bed. Lay down your ungainly body, curl up and stare at nothing and think of nothing. Blank and empty. You are nothing.

 

This is part one of a possibly endless endeavour to spam you all with my old writing efforts. I found my old hard drive, you see, and it’s endlessly fascinating in a narcissistic kind of way.

On the writing process. (2008)

Hell is neither fire nor brimstone

However much I invest in learning alchemy

or elemental magic,

It isn’t there

Sulphur has its own fire in the soul

Elements make this world

No devils

 

Hell ain’t other people neither

Though they be a bunch o fuckers

Liarsswidindlerskillers

Your who is not a where

you aint aware

of this

and you aint a fire

you int

you int no thing

tho you aint nothing

more the pity

 

hell

is here

Hell is the heart come barking

cluckin for dope years after the habit

howlin at the moon

 

hell is you

hell is being yourself

hell is where you are

 

hell is your useless bastard self

set alone

in the dark

For Pippa (A poem by the wonderful Kyle Norbury)

Fiery like a dragon firing shots and drinking doubles till Last Orders,

Then onto Hairy Dog sipping cider without a hint of a worry,

Laid back stage performer slaying old selves and pig-faced bigotry with cold chilled tones of melancholy,

Laughing in the face of the dark gloomy reality,

Wit with the might to conquer the high and mighty,

Hair fully blue like a full moon shining through clouds of misery,

Magical bowler hat black like the starry night sky when it’s time to party,

We’re all confused as to how someone so talented can still be stuck in Derby,

Friends, poets and public bar owners hope you stay here forever,

You carelessly sinful nun,

Intensely real and non-pretentious like a female Bukowski,

Poking fun at life’s pathetic fallacy with a burning blue flame of integrity,

A gothic black comedy butterfly fluttering high above through the rain,

Drink up the pain of past days and live for the present,

For you’re proper fucking ace at poetry!

 

Kyle Norbury wrote me this poem. It makes me sound pretty badass doesn’t it? I’m so incredibly flattered, my ego might well float off into the stratosphere. I’m lucky to know such talented people.

To read more from Kyle, check out his blog. It’s the least you could do.

For Pippa (A poem by the wonderful Kyle Norbury)

NaPoWriMo 14

Rage cry die whatever
Develop an emotion
Experience something relatable
In its banal horror
Swallow it all and spin it
Like a spider
Spin it out your arse
Some rarefied verbal silk
I hope it’s valuable
Even moths can earn you dollar
In this world.

NaPoWriMo 14