creative writing

Post-Valentines Post: DIRTY TALK

I think I’ve said here before that I don’t often post poetry I like on here, and that’s because: a) I’m embarassed and b) it seems like I have to keep them a tightly-held secret until I can sell them for millions.So, without further ado, the closest thing I’ve ever written to a love poem… Dirty Talk How can people say,Do it for me slut,I’ll take you from behind,You dirty little whore? In bed togetherWe talk of our secret origin:A few drinks too manyAnd an awkward kiss. Apart, I remember hidingIn the soft fur of your lower backAnd seeing dogs in the street and smilingBecause I know you would. Holding you downWhen you have fits of anger,My weight pressing down on yours. It’s not that I don’t want to take youOn all foursTear off your tights with my teeth.But how am I supposed to say that?

I AM THE EDITOR.

Spent the last couple of days working on a Creative Writing project for Uni, where I took some poems by First Year Students, that I kinda-liked-but-weren’t-that-great, and tried to make them sing a little better. I was reasonably happy with the results, and I loose them upon you, the unsuspecting public. An Honest ConfessionAn overgrown beardForeign skinA cotton kufiAnd, then yourRucksack. The sudden tension in my musclesIsn’t my fault-Blame The Sun,The Telegraph and The Mail.They taught me(Media Special Ops)Your face, your lookYour colour.Symbols on the red-bannered Flag of Terrorism. I’m sure you’re a decent blokeWe probably have a lot in commonMaybe you’re a Blues fan too.Why are you reaching for your pocket?Those headlines flash through my head:‘Train Terrorist Leaves None Alive’.Should I jump on you? Stop you? How? You pop a Polo into your mouth, then sigh. The SpiderCraning over the cliff-edgeOf a high chair,I stare into the empty sink,Except for the spider in its depths.Climbing up the edge, then slipping. (I don’t get to play, anymore.They hide away in their room,Clutching secrets close.) Run water into the sink,The spider dancesJust to stay still.Trails of legs scribbling-Mum says my writing’s like a spider’s.His legs trickle out across the page. Over the rush of waterI can hear the sounds.Elastic bands snapping,Over sore, red hands.The crackle of Mum’s voice, Daddy shouting-He never shouts at me. (Mum’ll come to the sink soon,With her eyes like shampoo’s been rubbed in andShe’ll dab at the rivers running down her face.) I make the tap a riverOver the stupid spider in the sink.Anyway I think it’s probably betterDown the plughole. (And again, I feel: why don’t I put up any poems that are properly my own, that I’m really proud of? Because, A, I’m not writing any at the moment and, B, I feel like doing that means I can’t submit them to magazines and such. Which I should really get on…)