Sorry for the lack of posting recently, but I have been a busy bee bumbling around the objects of life in my head and outside it. Walking Nelson and Pogo, composing poems and getting too drunk on cherry cider. These beautiful miracles of my existence were punctured by an unsuspected thrill- I entered an open mic night and won.
My sister came with me for moral support and to make sure I didn’t fall of the edge of the riverboat pub if I got too tipsy. I was so nervous before, and we left before the event was over- not because it was bad (The night was called ‘What the Thunder Said’ , it’s at Charters in Peterborough and is a really great night to go to!) but because Daisy was tired. When I got home plugging my heart up with more alcohol, there was a message on my phone telling me I’d won the votes and a £10 bar voucher!!!!
I truly wasn’t expecting this to happen- I thought I’d spoken my hard-to-understand poems too quietly and made too many slurred cider tongue slip ups for people to hear, let alone like my poems! It feels weird to me; even if I do things right it doesn’t feel right. It’s like my glasses throw an outline onto what my eyes see of a life I could have but don’t. Striving is a double edged sword I guess. Hoping to be better is good, but disregarding what small victories you have in favour of drawing up elaborate plans for self-improvement is something which is painful. One day I will be okay with being two people- the fucked up me and the platonic me who is me all along.
Today’s poem is the first poem from the sequence I read out yesterday, I hope you like it xoxoxoxoxxoxoxooxoxoxox
DRUGS YOU SHOULD TRY
Memory choirs impenetrable blooms-
(mothed lavender, lunar jasmine)
diffusing each brew with clinks of hillside legacies, his name.
How to rationalize if the only crumbed, conceivable trail to
honesty is being drunk or high?
Views cushion feetsouls- endurance with each downwards flight.
I pray reaching from metal hives.
April. It was nightroof smoking and biro black spun.
Ligaments an encore. Half-sketch of cotton at summit.
vulnerable features unspoken, just
cupped hand premonitions. My chance of desert rain fluting
dahlias from rhythmic burning.
Breath as incense, creeping bullets root to cosmos.
This gauzed monolith boy ambling above sleeping meadows-
the tight-rosed gold of budded city bulbs. Horizon
keeps like tinned peaches, snug
in my rockpooled chain of spine.
Is pipedreaming glitched? Here’s the alibi:
this is not his poem. This is how I feel I feel,