anciens

it's been awhile, my lonely little blog...cast adrift onto the waves of the internet sea.
left to the sharks of the ocean to chew at its weary carcass

or alternatively, i forgot the blog for a while, screw the pretentious sixth form poetry. Probably not even sixth form. year five. year three. year r. nursery school. toddler. womb. egg.
egg poetry. that's what this is.
.
.
.
a spider crawls around the edge of my cobwebbed and dustbound bedroom.
il n'y a pas de soleil.
shutters are pulled tight, keeping out the wizened clouds that pile over ma maison. dans la campagne. dans la france. are my volcabulary skills impressing you? am i dazzling you?
no?

sorry.

i'm just trying to get by. i've barely moved from my crumpled sheets, and mattress more springframe than comfort. limbs withered to their scrawny bones, paralysed in slow, slow asphyxia. all i have is a phrase book, water damaged and dog eared, most of the typescript faded away.

i've been living off the tinned cans that line the walls. rustspotted and decades old. my faithful old pocket knife follows the typical literary conventions, and remains my faithful old pocket knife. sustaining me on tinned peaches and tomato soup.

each night i fall into a deep slumber, the static filled quiet lulling my brain into rapideyemovement.
a(sleep)