Sometimes, when I feel especially adventurous or worn, I put on my black jumper and while away the hours watching TV static. The wool sticks to me and gives me a rash; the fibres rub my skin and make me itch and complain. The jumper is so old the origins of it are a mystery to even me, it appeared one day as though it may have floated through an open window and lighted on my life.
Perhaps it is a gift; perhaps it is a punishment.
The TV blinks and winks at me, but all the while reflects my face, and I laugh. The telephone is on loudspeaker tonight; the busy signal echoes as though my house is a castle with cavernously high ceilings made of
close though. I couldn't write. no matter what I did I couldn't seem to get anything down. I think my latest is pretty alright, check it out, it's called seahorses.
tell me if it's up to par. I'm a bit rusty.
Just know that if I had the time or patience that I would comment on ever single one of of your poems. Instead, I will comment here saying that you are an amazing writer, and that I will watch you from now on, even if I don't always comment.
Shit your poetry is insane. By that I mean it's really fucking intense and...for lack of a better word...good. I really enjoy it. Do us all a favour and get published one day, yeah?