Evening.
I have recently joined in an attempt to restart my writing by feeling obliged to update a blog. It seems to be working.
However, constructive advice is proving hard to find.
So I come cap in hand and ask for your wisdom...
And leave you with my most recent offering.
Many Thanks,
Riggs
x
Showing Tonite
Shifting in the worn velvet.
Finding the legroom.
Engaging in an arms war with neighbouring parties.
Lines drawn, territory marked.
Blackness stretches and yawns.
Curling an arm over your shoulder.
Panoramas of unimaginable mountain ranges surround you.
Your body sinks lower, seeking comfort.
Feats of heroic, epic proportions play out.
You urge your chosen idol on.
Hope is offered
Crushed underfoot in the twist you never saw coming.
Time rushes on unnaturally.
Propelling you to climax.
Let it last.
Answer all my questions.
Feeling cheated.
Bereft.
Your willing suspension of disbelief departs.
Hi Cap in hand, congratulations on defeating the empty white page. funny how it beckons and repels at the same time. interesting poem - erotica meets warring metaphors. rather sad at the end?
i'm trying to write too. it seems to be turning into Brokeback Mountain set in Snowdonia! Getting the opening right is fairly crucial. So here it is:
1 CAMPING
You can count the tracings of agony on the elegant arms. The times she has gone alone into her room and etched it on her skin. And when she runs out of space she pulls the razor across the tender flesh just below her waistband where the bloodied stripes cannot be seen.
*
Celia unwraps the flowers and arranges them in a vase. "I probably shouldn't have brought them, "she thinks. She's been unemployed for a week now. At first she'd felt a sense of relief at not having to support the heavy disguise she'd created for herself in order to survive. But today she feels humiliated. Not that she's a stranger to that but today she feels raw. As if everyone is pointing to her and her failures. And her own voice joins in mocking her attempts at trying to fit into the 'real' world instead of the fantasy that she had though was real.
Job centres, job seekers allowance, interviews, income support. She'd thought she'd left them behind. But, seven years later, here she is again scraping around for a living and this time without the security of her own home behind her.
Her daughter is ill again.
Now I've typed it out I'd be interested to know what people think of it as a beginning. Would you want to read more or be yawning?
Cheers,
Helen