A Life Of Fiction XCIII

For those of you new to this WordPress site, this site is about me and my writing – and a little about my role-playing, as well. It gives readers a chance to sample my work before purchasing it on the Kindle store; and gives me the chance to say a little about the genesis of each novel, or about the process of writing in general.

 

The Late, Late, Late, Late Poetry Show: Last post I banged on about Murder Sonnets as though it was the main poetry collection which I was working on at the moment. But that is not the case, it really just is one of many side projects which I am fiddling around with. The main poetry project is called The Late, Late, Late, Late Poetry Show. Sorry to go on about my poetry two posts in succession, but I may as well say something while the idea is still fresh in my mind.

Well, as I have said, The Late, Late, Late, Late Poetry Show will be the next poetry collection which I will release. At the moment it only has a few poems in it, so it will probably be many months before it is completed. I still compose verse, but at a much reduced rate, these days. But I have to have some receptacle for those poems which I think are interesting enough to release into the public sphere. I won’t say that they are good enough, as such a thing really is very subjective. There are many minor poets who I prefer to poets who have been Poet Laureate. In the end a lot of it comes down to personal taste, and the poems which I release are ones which I like, or which have some meaning to me.

A scene from the old Mork and Mindy show comes to mind. It is the bit where Robin Williams takes an egg, throws it up into the air, and says “Fly, be free.” Of course the egg lands with a splat on the kitchen counter. Sometimes I feel that my poetry is analogous to the egg. I throw these little collections of verse into the air, but all that happens is that they go splat. Oh, well.

The title of this poetry collection to be is from an idea which I had. They don’t have poetry on the TV, but, if they did, it would be buried in the darkest hours, when everybody is asleep: it would be on some time between three and six o’clock in the morning. Yet if it was the BBC they would point at the programme, and say that they were still committed to the arts. Even programmes featuring books tend to be hidden away, or non-existent. I don’t think that TV likes doing books. They simply aren’t visual enough, I guess. Maybe they should start reviewing comics.

Anyway, as a taster from the collection to be here is a nice shiny new poem. I’m not quite sure what this one is about, it is one of those strange beasts where the words just flowed out of me:

 

Sing A Song Of Sixpence

 

Sing a song of sixpence

A heart-told full of lies

Locked inside the decadence

I see behind your eyes.

 

Four and twenty aeons

Are memories cast aside

You laugh at all the peons

Who stare so dewy-eyed.

 

There is no rhyme or reason

To nurse the hate you do

Each promise is a treason

Each putdown on autocue.

 

Sing a song of sixpence

You sang it once for me

Before you swam in insolence

For all eternity.

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