Hey hey hey!
So, I've spent the day coming up with alternate life plans and buying large envelopes. That's right, ENVY ME. But for reals, this poetry lark is taking its toll on my inner tubes and whatnot.
Just as a joke, answer me, who would read a novel I'd written? Not that I really HAVE written it, but it's coming along, and I'm pretty sure that if I sent some positive public opinion polls garnered from my very own blog to the agents I'm going to approach, they would DEFINITELY want to add me to their books. So do me a favour, tell people I'm a writer and that I'm coming to write the shit out of them, yeah? Thx bbz.
Day 35, love to you.
The Book Of
In the beginning,
we went to a pearl
and asked for forgiveness.
The pearl said,
“Let he who is without a stone
cast the first line.”
And with that, fishing was born
and all the people were saved.
We cut out small stars from our skin
and cooked them into a stew
so that we might taste
the darkness of universe.
Our mothers and fathers didn’t trust us
with the sharp knives,
but when we served the meal,
they sat back and thought it was good.
They say there are cabbages out there
that are bigger than houses;
so big in fact they hollow them out
and have people live in them,
like giant molluscs.
There, they make lists
of everything that could improve
at the hands of anyone but themselves.
We’re all born in black and white,
coming out of the dark room,
pleased with our exposure.
In the end, everything is a sea
and we have drowned and drowned again
searching for a precious stone.
Wandering through the suburb of my mind
the streets ring with nothing.