I want to get in,
to slide under the skin,
to get past the surface.
It looms there,
just over the shoulder,
just under the rug.
I want to strip it down,
strip it all down.
What truly lies within a heart?
Much, much and more.
Bring the inexplicable, the incomprehensible
to the surface.
Stir the soup of humanity.
See what rises to the top.
And taste it.
It’s funny, isn’t it.
But to find it,
You have to
To the darkness.
And when comes tumbling down,
it isn’t romantic.
It doesn’t give life to the parched earth, or
wash away the city’s filth.
It doesn’t obscure the details
It doesn’t refract and reflect the light.
No. It isn’t romantic.
It only makes people walk with their heads bent low
so as not to wet their hair
or meet each other’s eyes.
The cattle won’t low
The angels won’t sing
Just sew up your heart, dear
And die in your sleep
Tell me the truth, my dear, my dear
Sing me a song, my love, my love
Sweep me away from the glorious night
and teach me never, no never to fight.
I want something on the topic of FISH HOOKS.
Prose, poetry or word vomit, I don’t care.
You have 2 hours.
I’m leaving my job at the publishing company I work with this week. I’ve been doing a lot of submissions and editing work, and I don’t want to leave it behind.
So this is my new project.
Anything you would like critiqued or improved, please tag it with #thewordworkshop.
I’m aiming this at people who are looking to submit to publishers or competitions, and who would like a bit of feedback. Hopefully, people will respond and give you the help that you need.
Please reblog if interested.
There should be editors that go by GMT.
Figure in a Landscape - Arthur Armstrong
Bones of the dead things bleached in the sun.
Some dawn, some monstrous scorching dawn an age ago, an instant ago, tore into the sky and forced the land and sky apart. A knife eased into the horizon, eviscerating, separating; oh agony.
A step forward, another, another, will reveal the yawning gap. The world ends at the edges. Ahead, the sky and land part company - oh I know, I know, oh - recoiling away from each other in disgust, into infinity. Logic’s anchor has dragged; corners flap loose here, in this place, in this time.
That dawn, the earth cracked and shivered, oh, cracked and shivered, and the abyss opened with a sigh. Dust and seas and souls alike swept down, down, down, caught in the flood of their own passing, until that was left was bones. Colour fled soon after, draining out in a shimmering swan song through the hole in the bottom of the world.
The long day began. It reigns still.
Dusk will come, or it will not come. No matter, no matter
I stand sentinel.
Let the wolves howl
We’ll be in here
Tucked up in bed
With our own wolves beneath
To me, this is poetry.
How about you?
There’s a pipe dripping somewhere.
I have checked every tap, every room, held my ear up to every radiator. The sound dances closer then spirals away. I wouldn’t mind so much if it had a rhythm, but each drop comes a little too soon or a litte too late after the previous for it to drum easily on my brain. I cant find it. I cant turn it off.
I cant turn it off.
I cant turn it off.
Please turn it off.
So I can sleep.