Nik Nak

Life is delicate.

A Nik Nak tied to a fly.

I can’t see what my fly’ll do.

Someone might cut my string, all I can do

Is hang there and be crunchy.

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Slipped

Rolling down the hillside,

Merle’s body made it’s way to the rocky crags beneath,

Merle fluttered in and out of his head.

There was a bliss when he rose above into the warmth, and didn’t have to feel every splitting crack in bone, every cruel tumble and snag on skin and clothes. Every hot, wet drip of red.

Yet, there was a looseness, a feeling of his self escaping as he became disembodied.

He felt glassy and tried to throw himself into the weighted doll that left him.

Futile effort made in desperation,

and yet, two days and he wakened shattered, breathing in jagged breaths.

 

Honest dating profile

I just want someone to sleep with in both ways. Someone with whom a love can grow happily – with neither one of us shouldering more burden than the other. I don’t want to labour or suffer for you. I want to easily please you and to be easily pleased in return. In you hands, I want to feel my restlessness lift away and leave me. I want to exercise vulnerability and not resilience. I want to feel no restraint, only joy, as I lie with you fondly and feel gladdened by your heavy presence, your lion-gentle breath.

It’s been nearly 6 months

It’s been almost 6 months since I started posting on here – and I just thought I’d do a little post to mark it.

I still love doing this – it’s one of the only things I genuinely enjoy, as bleak as that sounds, haha.

But, I’m still amazed about how different the writing experience can be day to day and post to post.

Sometimes I write so much in a day, that I feel awkward posting everything I’ve written and have to let them bleed out gently over the next few days or weeks, and other days the mine is empty and I either don’t touch this at all, or I edit something I’ve done previously.

I wrote a 100 and odd word poem in about 15 minutes this afternoon (it is a bit of a silly one mind, just something sort of playing with rhyme, with a nursery rhyme sort of rhythm), but this morning I was thinking today was gonna be one of those days where I just feel like the blankest blank as soon as I open my laptop. I also had an idea for a (very) short story, that I wrote the first part of whilst squeezed in the dusty crevice between my bed and the wall.

Part of me feels like I should go back and attend to previous work, I’ve started that I intended to follow up, but haven’t quite got round to. (e.g. https://headdome.wordpress.com/2017/04/28/experience-what-ive-learnt/)

I’m not entirely sure what’s stopping me. I feel like I’m always lured in by the freshness of starting something new and clicking on that “Write” button.

(NB – I’ve just followed that link and realised part of what might be stopping me – just the fact that I’m mildly embarrassed by what past me has written/ how I’ve worded certain things. I don’t think that’s helping, because I feel reluctant to go back to something that makes me cringe even the tiniest bit.)

Maybe it would help if I found the previous parts, printed them off and bashed down some ideas by hand, instead of relying so comfortably on my laptop and what I can pull out of my head. I definitely feel like editing and annotating comes more naturally when I can scribble all over the page in different colours and things.

The other post that I feel has slightly got away from me is “NPC” – which was supposed to be a short story, but, at the moment, is just in the form of one actual post and one sort of side post which is a poem of a few of my notes on it compiled. I also have a couple of locked essays in my Drafts folder: one’s an unfinished reading of one of my favourite musicals and the others have escaped my memory at the moment, haha – must be good then, eh?

I feel like I’m learning all the time and I love the pool of work I’m exposed to here, if you’re reading this, thanks for your time :). Again, as with most of my prose posts/ notes on my poems, I’m not entirely sure of the purpose of this, except for a bit of a record of my thinking I suppose. Not everything has to have a proper purpose, right? And this is my space to write, so I should probably stop second-guessing myself, as I come to the close of the final paragraph liiiike this. (full stop.)

I’m off to sleep now :). Night :).

H

Prose for goodness sake get off the roundabout, you might fall. Don’t go developing a healthy sense of balance and risk now. Poetry, yeah course you can go and play near the train tracks -just don’t lick the track or anything because trains never wash their feet, good lad.

I can let poems out of the cage as unfinished monstrosities,

as lumbering creatures sort of sewn together, but not quite –

all the filling sort of hanging out like a burst silicone implant (I watched a lot of surgery programmes today).

But not prose, it sort of gets treated like the over-guarded, over-disciplined older child.

It feels too real and I feel like it has to be better, has to be more of a photographic representation of my feelings… I just can’t be as playful or carefree.

And I find that annoying.

Because my feelings are in flux all the time anyway, “so what does it matter?” I ask.

But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?

I don’t know, I just can’t let go of it the same.

But I’m sure I will, I just need more practice and more time, a few months ago I would have felt sick posting a poem on here and now I’ve posted over 200.

I feel like I’m being very lax with them darling, don’t you think?