Whilst writing SKIN BOOK, and swearing blind to anyone and everyone who'd listen that it WASN'T A POEM but a flash novel, I got a terrible sinking realisation that maybe in 2010 I OUGHT to write a poem.
So I entered up to do a live reading at a local arts festival in the poetry category to make myself write something.
The problem was, I soon realised it was impossible to turn off my story-writer's plot brain. And my OCDish feeling that every rhythm must be carried to its resolution. So filling the 3 minute time slot seemed pretty nigh impossible. Instead I decided to commit myself to a proper, full-length poem that I'll perform at a dedicated reading later ni the Spring. It's called Freakshow.
But, after days and days of agonising, wondering if I could just do a chapter of SKIN BOOK (ignoring the fact IT'S NOT A POEM :p), deciding the local blue-rinses would actually physically expire if I did, I came up with something. The product of torture, pain, despair, it goes by the delightful title:
A bordello in the chambers of my heart
There’s a bordello in the chambers of your heart,
Under the eaves
The semi-dark breeze
The pigeon scat and bat-soaked beams.
Life takes off its come-stained raincoat
In the orange-grey
Hot rock melting-sweet-syrup-smack
Cigarette bud light,
A thousand sweat stench scents
String out on the scab slab floor
Seep spores leaching into gravestone paving.
Life looks up at me,
Dangling skirt flap,
Its palm and fans me a light
Is that right?
I spark up
Yeah, that’s my price.