(Warning: vaguely sexual content)
(More mushy stuff about my boyfriend under the cut: I do apologize. I actually finished this a month ago but didn’t post it until now – sorry! It’s rather rough and quite lazy.)
(It’s strange, how weirdly inspiring (in terms of art) English Literature degrees can be sometimes. Sadly, though, I think the metaphor here is going to be a little lost.
This is, I should mention, not really a poem – this is something closer to a work in progress. Hence the numbering; perhaps I’ll come back to this idea. It’s a lovely one, regardless.)
(Oh, and for those of you reading who are a little lost as to the symbolism, here’s how it works: prior to the 19th Century, books were read only by an elite few, and hence, paper was of a high, low acid quality. We move to the 19th Century, the introduction of the printing press, and we need paper in higher quantities, so we move to wood pulp (hence the term ‘pulp novels’) which are of a high acid quality, and degrade faster. This is why, oddly, books from the 15th Century are better preserved than books from the 19th Century. It’s a lovely factoid, and a piece of symbolism I’d like to return to.)
(I honestly have no idea what inspired this, beyond the 400-level paper I’m taking on the subject. But also, huzzah, I have a computer so semi-regular updates can happen again, yay!)
(After a night of intense stress, my boyfriend got his job! Yay! So I’m celebrating with a short freeform poem about love, emotion and poetry.)