(Yet another sestina. Enjoy!)
(Writing this on my phone, so apologies for errors; they happen. Also apologies I haven’t been back much since the 18th; been a bit busy, and I still lack a computer.)
(This piece of prose requires some backstory.
So last year I had two breakups. One was amicable. The other was not. In order to get over the not-amicable breakup, I started writing stories about my friends and I. The first was plainly just me being unfair and angry at my ex and I soon lost interest in it. The second was abandoned because it was bad. The third was actually kind of good, until I got a really long way in and then realized that I had gotten so invested in the story that I now wanted to make it work and the only way to do that was to start over with original characters.
So here is me doing…I guess you’d call it a prologue piece to the whole story. It introduces a few of the major players and major concepts. Also, I clearly can’t quite get away from author and friend inserts, because there are a couple here. Ah, well.
Fourth time is the charm?)
(I know, I know, I said I’d post this one on Valentine’s Day. Well, Valentine’s Day turned a bit messy. So, here it is, in all it’s splendor: My first full sestina in years.)
Moving home today – uh, sort of. Well, moving out of my dad’s place into a flat. It’s all a bit bonkers, really.
Anyway, I will be unable to post for a while, at least until internet gets sorted over there.
There’s a draft of a prose post waiting in the wings to be published, though, and a few poems coming up, so things are on the way.
Be good while I’m away.
(There is an outside chance that I am posting an awful lot now, while I have free time, to make up for all the days I missed in January.
Also, as both the title and the tritina itself indicate, I was not feeling in the best of moods when I wrote this poem. CW: lots of talk of death and morbid imagery.)
(You know, when I’m not being lovey-dovey, I really do dive headfirst into frankly fucked-up imagery, don’t I…?)
(This was my attempt, sometime last year, to write what I called ‘a narratological horror story’. The Bitter King was written with a similar thought process – the concept that narrative and narrative devices can be where true horror lie, not necessarily within plot.
The Bitter King, I feel, works better as an examination of our culture of celebrity worship, but Proof of Existence, my first attempt, is much closer to what I was attempting to achieve and is, if not actively horrific, then certainly unnerving.)