inklings: the slater

Saturday - Inklings

it’s 1.58am over here. 26 degrees celsius. i don’t think you can really consider it saturday anymore. but it’s still saturday somewhere else in the world. 🙂

so this series of blog posts will be generally on writing, and me writing things. however, i’m kind of hesitant as to how much i can write here without someone taking it without my permission and claiming it as their own … so i don’t think i’ll actually write stories here. maybe i’ll free write rough poems that i can later go back to. but please, to whoever shares this (though i doubt the things i write are that worthy of being shared), i’m happy if you do, but do state where you get it from, i.e. here. and send a link over to this blog too. thank you!

“the slater”

that’s what grass smells like
that’s the dirt beneath my nails
the self-defensive curl
as i pry you off the ground
sprawled in the field
that’s what recess smells like
hula hoops and make believe and bottle greens
and tuesday spaghetti in a tinfoil box
in a brown paper lunch-bag

but that’s what yesterday sounds like
an absence in the corner of my never mind
i scratch for the dirt in the cement-filled
film of dust plastered onto a familiar unfamiliar word
‘chucky pig’, ‘woodlouse’
that’s what forgotten sounds like
a tired, hollowed out whorl
archipelagos on uncharted seas of consonant-
like turbulence on my tongue

and you tremble there
coiled in my yesterdays
you’re what childhood looks like
a harmless plaything on the field of 1998

i hope you like it! bittersweet trying to trace out a particular ten seconds of my life back in australia. and now it’s 2.43am. yes, it really took me that long to try and write a poem.

till next time! a.k.a. later today!

cumuloq ❤

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