Anyways, it's about time I took pen to paper in anger once more. I haven't written a line of poetry since finalising my latest chapbook a few months back. I've no intention of submitting any of the crimes I'm about to commit to the Guardian poetry workshop, but I need some sort of displacement activity to keep me away from writing my novel.
Forward, brave hearts! Here's the results from day 1 of this 10 day torture:
Imagine a forest of clown-trees,
she says, with revolving bow ties
for leaves and bright red nose buds.
Do the flowers squirt the bees
with nectar, I ask. Oh yes,
she agrees: it is a necessary prank;
how else can the long shoe seeds form?
They dangle in pairs from the boughs,
you know, and drop with the first frost
to the hard ground, among the powder
puff balls and the slapstick stinkhorns:
who painted your face so sad?
Well, I did warn you ...
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