Sussex

I am officially a Sussex university student! It's quite brilliant, but quite busy. In all honesty, I've been disenchanted by the freshers events, I was hoping for a more artsy mainstream culture, but never mind. I think I was quite naive! But I'm slowly finding my niche.
Recent poems have been.. different. Written in the presence of others (though sleeping), written in the early hours, written drunk, written cold and uncomfortable.
That might sound romantic but in fact I think I like these far less than my previous style. God, reading through, I loathe 'Bed'. I may not even post it. Do I just descend into repetitive rhyme when I am inebriated? Surely my mind is supposed to be 'liberated'?
Does this justify the use of stronger substance or none at all?
I will have to try both.

I'm going to a poetry night in Brighton tonight called 'floetics' - I am quite excited! It should be good.

Stagnant Algae

I love that there is nobody home
and that every step dashes it further into predictability
with anglesey and marina,
our two lovers have seen a new beginning which will run out.
White round necks run around in the dark, drawing my eye,
sweet Jesus you're appealing,
I need something to drown out the white noise, white colours,
white cotton fabrics and white animal festering liquid that stands in refrigerators
self-righteously.
I hate dairy,
why can't it leave me alone? And vivisection will never be the answer
to the rage of a nation
and illimitable humanity that drips onto fruit
and snakes and who knows how many pieces of futile paper
or cardboard or tissue, crumpled,
sobbing from disuse and stinging a little in the side.
Like the toy doll on a stick that licks our mental wounds- our empty rooms,
in yellow sickly houses with blue and red rugs which lie
in the silence, deafening the old and driving them into inertia.
I remember. I remember when marshmallows were the only problem.
When car parks were the setting for intense joy
and now the ticket price strikes twice with glaring eyes
while I watch my quaking, ruptured thighs
that wish just for once to become ocean to bare pain for my own personal gain.
Labouring under the illusion, of course, that everything early was pure.
Not a battlefield but empty, and I know,
if I squeeze a little that I am wrong. I was still full of melodrama.
But water means nothing to a man who owns a tap,
plughole and bathtub full of dirt.
A worm pushes clods of mud to find a delicate wisp of opaque plastic,
clinging to a docile strand of glass, or grass, with ambivalence,
and suddenly mutating into an enormous god and devouring it.
Endlessly.

Spitriol

I am really angry at the moment. The poem I'm about to post is not a poem, it doesn't have an ending. A never ending poem. Did anybody have that board game, The Never Ending Story? That was a frightening game. The possibilities. I might dig it out and write with it.
I have been thinking about word association on top of word association on top of word association in poems. Dada, etc. I might try this out soon, but I'm about to go to Sussex University on Saturday, so my writing might be interrupted (not that it isn't already).

I think although hell is other women, it's mostly just myself. I was looking at the SCUM manifesto earlier and thinking it was a good idea, but then I think it's not really wide-ranging enough. SCUP? Bring on global warming, that's all I can say.

Sphere Weapon

Bait my breath and dangle your hook into my throat,
leaving the gag reflex unmoved, yet nerves screaming through synapses
as the metal fingernail opens a gash, overflowing fluids,
and as my cauldron lungs bubble and froth,
as my paper body convulses beyond control,
as my snake eyes strain out of their sockets,
as my pig cheeks turn pink, red, purple, blue,
I'll scribble futile newspaper articles, but they'll know it was you.