Book 4 is a revenge story written in two distinct styles. Style one is told from the thoughts and speech of the main character and is all ye olde english. Lots of "thou" "thy" and "nary" involved. Style two is told from the actions of everything else around the main character and is very blunt and short. The thinking in me going down that route is to extenuate the simplicity of what is happening outside of the main character whilst at the same time show his own madness and thought patterns crammed with metaphors.
Book 5 is actually a coming together of two poetry projects I have completed (one about words and the other which has sketches, poetry and observations in) and writing a third section to bring them all together. This is called "Words to be performed from under a table by the last of us". 'Words' is literally about words. What we use them for, how they are used and the context in which they are used as conceived by the main character. 'To be performed from under a table' is a collection of observations about the state of the world we live in and how the main character views it. 'By the last of us' has the main character wandering hell after taking his own life and attempting to make sense of everything. So, a lot going on at the moment! And some poetry below from my 5th book!
The Open Book
My spine has been
broken,
pages of my story
ripped apart,
words inside dead
and stolen,
ink now bleeds
from my heart.
Scattered about at
my feet
commas and full
stops die,
turned to ash in
this heat,
not much left but
a decry.
The open book
sliced in two,
scissor writing
pouring out,
letters begin to
fade and undo,
losing what it was
all about.
A wind disperses
what is left,
forever gone in
the night,
this all amounts
to a simple theft,
and the end to an
unwinnable fight.
The Suffer of Rain
Tiny pin pricks
gently fall like feathers whispering in the snow,
grazing over bare
skin as if teasing my senses with light.
Striking the
ground tentatively and with an embarrassed hush,
they disappear in
a fragmented star dust eruption of reaching digits.
Now with a little
bit more meaning a waving blanket begins,
tucking over me in
a harvest beyond the horizon.
A fine consistent
wetness begins to seep into my being,
darken the ground
I walk onwards to what I do not know.
Then comes the
torrent undeterred or concerned with light,
a battering of ink
marking my soul with determined words.
Crawling around
and into every fibre of my corpse,
bouncing against
anything it strikes as if re-joining the clouds.
And finally the
suffer of rain becomes alive forced downwards,
slicing away my
softened up flesh and muscle.
I feel my body
fade away cut to pieces and butchered,
washed away
amongst the rest of the sewage down hells drain.
