Today I’ve started my last week at this internship; I finish next monday and then, on the Tuesday, I’m right back at the Jobcentre; whoop-di-do.
But, ignoring that, this internship has meant I haven’t much time to actually write, particularly as I’m juggling my girlfriend, christmas shopping (what little I can afford) and sleep as well. I’m looking forward to being able to write again. I have been spending what little time I’ve been at home editing The Caitiff; I’m going through it sentence by sentence, making it easier to read, taking away some of the imagery even I find convoluted and simplifying it a little.
What has surprised me the most, however, is how much I am enjoying reading my own work! Is that a continuation of the narcissism I have professed to a hundred times, do you think?
Somehow, as I’ve been writing it and worrying about it and giving up on it, I forgot why I was writing The Caitiff. I was writing because I want to read it, I want to know what my imagination can conjure, even if it is based in the real world.
I hope to have it completely finished soon and, as soon as I an afford the ISBN, I intend to self-publish it; I think. I spent some time looking through indie publishers, but I have yet to find one which selects unsolicited submissions and which doesn’t seem to publish utter crap and borderline porn for bored housewives.
Anyway, here’s some utter crap! Written as I waited for someone to get out of the toilet; Enjoy!
I keep the heart
Of Francis de Sales,
in my bedside cabinet;
for reasons unexplained, for art,
for the monthly nightmares when I lost myself in ‘hails!’
towards a God I never known.
And often I’ll pierce,
the muscle and the sinew and the dried blood,
with a dart I keep as a bookmark;
with my teeth drawn back. So fierce,
and testosterone within my body floods,
all reason and the hope of reason.
And occasionally I smell him,
a patron saint of four hundred years,
and the madness he used to preach;
and I will sleep and dream of his limbs,
wiping away water I refuse to recognise as my fears,
whilst he displays all the signs,
of a modern man,
hiding simple fears.