A bit tired today, been shopping all day and off to a gig shortly so thought I'd do a quick poem before I go. As it's the 13th today the theme for this poem is luck.

Unlucky For Some
John was superstitious.
Incrediby so.
Despite being an intelligent soul
He thought it was best
Not to tempt fate.
He never stepped on cracks.
And carried a small stick
Made of oak
In his right jeans pocket
Everywhere he went.
He touched it now and then
When necessary.
It was Friday the 13th
So he dare not go out.
As he stepped across the gaps
Between the tiles
In the Kitchen
He slipped and fell.
The stick in his pocket,
Narrowly missed his penis
And pierced his groin
That was lucky, he thought
As he passed out.

I've been rereading Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman. The first time I read it I was bewitched by the prose and language and poetry. This time I'm reading it from the point of view of a writer. I am bewitched by the prose and language and poetry (and also the style and ideas). It's incredibly frustrating reading something so well written and wondering how I can ever hope to call myself a writer, or a poet or anything at all. So I write and wonder at my arrogance. This poem is about that, and other things, having a baby and worrying about him or her. All sorts of things. Nothing at all. One of the poems in the book is a sestina, I might try writing one of those next week - but it looks difficult and I don't think I'm ready, so this one will be a little more freeform than that.

Reading Neil Gaiman On The Bus
The ricketty bus hurtles down the tired streets
Dancing onward on the thin Welsh roads
Over bridges, chasing dreams away.
I sit and read my book
Engrossed and lost to life
Try to analyse and understand the form
Why it works
Why it fills my soul so full.
The web of words infect my mind
I cannot still the creeping loss of sense for style
And lose myself fully to his charms.

Unsteady jolts that bring me from my world
Also make my stomach spin and twirl
A wrenching leap from out of lands unknown.
And so I glance about and see the sun
Setting over dunes across the way.
I think of our unborn child
Will it see the sky and wonder at the hues?
Heal its broken heart with life's magnificence?
As I did often, in my teens?
Will he or she see beauty in this place?
Can we instill some magic in their innocence?

My flitting stomach calms and I return
Into a world of vamps and darkened places.
I lose myself again and close life out
The memory of the purples of the sunset
Receeding in my mind like softened feathers
Floating into the recesses unbidden
To rise again in later thoughts
Although I cannot see it in the dark (I never can)
The feeling it envokes comes back once more
And brings a smile upon my face again.

This place I go, which envelopes me but serves to increase my literary frustration
Almost makes me miss my actual destination.

This is a poem about the way my brain works in comparison to my wife's. Brains fascinate me, and the fact that Jem and I have so much in common and yet our brain patterns are so radically different is very interesting.

Radio Niblock
I think in words not in pictures
My wife is the other way round
It's like there's a radio on in my head
With one single DJ alone in the dark.
Where other's get cable or digital thoughts.
Full colour scenes with music and sounds.

Sometimes I am jealous
Am I missing out?
I ask my self quietly
In my own head.

'Cause I think in words not in pictures.
Narrating my own little life.
The voice in my head isn't scary or cool.
It doesn't say KILL or I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.
It talks to itself about stupid things.
It worries and frets, and sometimes it sings.

Sometimes I am jealous
Is my brain OK?
It doesn't reply
To these thoughts in my head.

If I think in words not in pictures.
Does that mean that I am a freak?
I know there are others just like me
With their radios on inside.
I wonder if they feel the same things as me
The panic as if you are missing a ride.

Sometimes I am jealous
But sometimes I'm not
Although I am sure
That I'm missing a lot.

When I think in words not in pictures,
I like words and rhythms much more
The rat-a-tat-tat of a phrase in my head
The chitter-chat-chat of my voice when alone.
I like long slow words and words that erupt.
Trip-trapping words will also delight
As they fight for the space in my mind in the night.