kguard
it’s these days they’ve been so hot
autumn in the mornings and overcast
i can’t wear my watch heavy on my…
sweat on my wrist. if you tied me round
an arm or leg would i grow over the wire
like a tree bulge scar? soot bark peels
from the road side out. pavement pavement
road it’s been dry here. can’t move my thumb
can’t close my hand hurts my wrist
struggle to write. chew my fingers
by the nails dead skin thick skin
and a sliver pulls too far back
and it’s hurting for days i still want to chew it.
walking and writing and talking to myself
and i thought it was you. used to fold freezer bags
to silver wads with tooth mark edges.
long time. i’m afraid of winter there’s no love
it can’t be worse but it’s just me fighting
with myself it’s just me it’s nothing.
mattdalby
18sep5
Kind of similar to notes from blue notebook, obviously hit a tone that's working. Partly sparked by seeing Last Days (I have a review already written, but it was for my uni application, so I'll hang on before posting), partly by listening to lotta Sonic Youth, Mogwai kinda stuff. Doubtless there'll be more of the same, doubtless also to be sent back from magazines without being read.
I've garnered a fine collection of rejection slips from poetry magazines over the last four months, and there are 4 or 5 magazines clearly not even going to read my work. It's looking more and more like I'll have to try put together my own book in the new year, although I'd really rather someone else took me on - you can't edit yourself effectively. In the meantime I'll just keep putting stuff here from time to time, sending work to magazines that don't wanna know, and playing with alternate ideas, like film and photos.
Have started to read a bunch of poems with the aim of memorising them, so in about a fortnight I'll be able to hit the performance circuit again. Yet more indifference to my every effort. It's only the fact that I feel I have to write, I have to perform that keeps me going. The fact that creating when it feels best is experienced retrospectively like being in a fugue state you want to recapture. Besides, that's the only reward in poetry.
autumn in the mornings and overcast
i can’t wear my watch heavy on my…
sweat on my wrist. if you tied me round
an arm or leg would i grow over the wire
like a tree bulge scar? soot bark peels
from the road side out. pavement pavement
road it’s been dry here. can’t move my thumb
can’t close my hand hurts my wrist
struggle to write. chew my fingers
by the nails dead skin thick skin
and a sliver pulls too far back
and it’s hurting for days i still want to chew it.
walking and writing and talking to myself
and i thought it was you. used to fold freezer bags
to silver wads with tooth mark edges.
long time. i’m afraid of winter there’s no love
it can’t be worse but it’s just me fighting
with myself it’s just me it’s nothing.
mattdalby
18sep5
Kind of similar to notes from blue notebook, obviously hit a tone that's working. Partly sparked by seeing Last Days (I have a review already written, but it was for my uni application, so I'll hang on before posting), partly by listening to lotta Sonic Youth, Mogwai kinda stuff. Doubtless there'll be more of the same, doubtless also to be sent back from magazines without being read.
I've garnered a fine collection of rejection slips from poetry magazines over the last four months, and there are 4 or 5 magazines clearly not even going to read my work. It's looking more and more like I'll have to try put together my own book in the new year, although I'd really rather someone else took me on - you can't edit yourself effectively. In the meantime I'll just keep putting stuff here from time to time, sending work to magazines that don't wanna know, and playing with alternate ideas, like film and photos.
Have started to read a bunch of poems with the aim of memorising them, so in about a fortnight I'll be able to hit the performance circuit again. Yet more indifference to my every effort. It's only the fact that I feel I have to write, I have to perform that keeps me going. The fact that creating when it feels best is experienced retrospectively like being in a fugue state you want to recapture. Besides, that's the only reward in poetry.
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