Diodes

So, a lot of you will know that I’m doing some copywriting work on a volunteer basis, y’know, to get some experience for when nobody wants to read the Caitiff and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this admittedly large bedroom; as such, I don’t have the time to write as much as I used to. This is actually something I wrote LAST NIGHT! I know, right? Something that isn’t pulled from my phone and my past self?

I think I’m going to try and write a little more just before I go to bed; I’ll just have to stave off the debilitating weakness ‘working’ life so loves to impart.

This piece is called Diodes, cos’ I don’t like calling things ‘Untitled’.

The shadows of arachnophobia twist,
intersecting silhouettes against a ceiling,
plastered and white-washed walls,
textured with a million indiscretions.

The lights are inlaid diodes,
and illumination comes, stilted, from the door,
and stretches out across the carpet; a pale yellow pall.
I think that this would be the perfect light for confession.
If only I had something to confess.

Huxley and Johnny Cash are nestled,
around a painting of a lake and
a mountain range above the television’s flickering call,
and a computer monitor, enabling my profession
to act like a dealer relying on due process,
or a grinning barman with his hands on the whiskey.

2014-11-22 12.06.58
My hand writing is absolutely atrocious, I know. I make no apologies!

The streetlights move, uninvited, around my blind,
and the wind bullies through the crevice there;
Screeching, howling between the rainfall,
and allows the cold to emblazon,
the debilitation of a bloated abscess,
with the desperation of insipid conversation, and the holy
men masturbating in golden temples.

I’ve not been writing much little, but that little I have been doing has been on my notepad, or just editing the Caitiff. I had a long period where I only wrote on the PC, so I’d somewhat forgotten how enjoyable the simple act of manually writing is.
I’m sue I’ll incorporate manual writing into my next ‘Literary Experiment’, if I ever get the chance to do one in the near future. The idea of a short story, a collection of short stories, written entirely with a pen appeals to me, even though I’m aware of how obvious a decision it might be.

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