What are you writing?

poetix

we murder to dissect
Had fun lately writing bits of something much bigger that doesn't exist yet and which I don't have to write the entirety of myself, just knocking out a bit here or there when I have the time, typing it straight into my phone. It's not all good but some of it is good, and as good as stuff I've spent much more brow-furrowing time and effort on. If I wrote 1000 lines like this and threw all the rubbish ones away I'd still have a few hundred lines I liked, I think. So that's a good trick to play on yourself: don't try to make something finished or perfect, start in the middle and finish when you run out of steam, tell yourself you'll come back to it.
 

poetix

we murder to dissect
It's about King Arthur, of all things. This bit's on Guinevere:

Hard not to see her now as Lady Di
or archetypally-adjacent: as robustly
coiffed as tender hearted, with a weakness
for sporty sort who makes away with prizes.

Most tellings closet her in nunnery
at close of play, love-weary if not penitent.
Our Lady never made it through the gates.
She would have rocked no doubt a tasteful wimple.

Lancelot: epic shagger or just decent
caring dick, a practised disher-out
trying a little gentillesse, an undeveloped
love of finer things fixed on a nearby object?
There is no poem given in his voice.
The King always spoke well, and well of him -
in all his ringing triumph, a mosquito
buzz of humiliation, motive for a little
payback, stolen courtly love behaviour?
Or else, amid all intrigue, something pheromonal
nosing its way in, two flush bodies not quite
managing their separation. She was much
alone; the marriage sorely undercrowded.
 

sufi

lala
It's about King Arthur, of all things. This bit's on Guinevere:

Hard not to see her now as Lady Di
or archetypally-adjacent: as robustly
coiffed as tender hearted, with a weakness
for sporty sort who makes away with prizes.

Most tellings closet her in nunnery
at close of play, love-weary if not penitent.
Our Lady never made it through the gates.
She would have rocked no doubt a tasteful wimple.

Lancelot: epic shagger or just decent
caring dick, a practised disher-out
trying a little gentillesse, an undeveloped
love of finer things fixed on a nearby object?
There is no poem given in his voice.
The King always spoke well, and well of him -
in all his ringing triumph, a mosquito
buzz of humiliation, motive for a little
payback, stolen courtly love behaviour?
Or else, amid all intrigue, something pheromonal
nosing its way in, two flush bodies not quite
managing their separation. She was much
alone; the marriage sorely undercrowded.
Epic, can you work in something more seditious, treasonous even perhaps?
 
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