This week has happened before. Not on these terms or in this framing, but we have stood in villages like this before, watering holes of knowledge before continuing on the journey to the next required destination. I remembered last night there has been poetry for them too, so as there’s not been an original piece for a while apart from Pelmanism, it seemed the right moment to share some poetry for your Sunday.
My hard drive is littered with poems written in moments of anger, I now realise. One has very likely provided a pamphlet title, or maybe another poem starter. So much for me rolls from one space to another as it helps remove the emotional stress that I cannot dream away. I am also beginning to believe that this is where the need to long-form ‘story tell’ might have originated from. I was creating places to hide in.
Fuck you and the Others
Obviously, I never swore on the page before. He stares at me, aghast, powerful pronouncement fancy that, from the humble housewife in his creative writing class in this shit Victorian edifice within a cold, sad, Wednesday town what is he? Ten years younger plus than me and already there is the obvious in labelling assumption not enabling as deep within the woman something cracks, fresh fractures exposing anger, which meek masking lacked as fuel what gives him the right? It is imperative to fuck you and the others in your wake. If all men sit in judgement of emotional response their jaded eyes always ignoring I, that true enlightenment is only built using proclivity I must evolve each time, redefine these lines remade before, declaring war, with words.
This is a 90% true story. For a time, my tutor followed me on Twitter. He unfollowed the day I announced I’d been accepted for pamphlet publication.
Congrats on the pamplet. And fuck him!
Woooow, he was showing his insecurities a bit there, wasn't he?