Five fingers huddle together,
earth and rock made,
valvate, black and charred,
stand the wrath of clouds,
enclose a vertical cave.
Writers today use two different methods to produce literature. Not having a job is a well-tested method. It helps people produce better works of art. But it is exclusively recommended by people who don’t have jobs. So, there is no telling if it really works. If their opinions…
If Zero(deliberate capitalisation) people follow The Writer’s Soup, shouldn’t it be reason enough to not write a letter? Let’s work on the quality of the question. If Zero people follow The Writer’s Soup whose inbox is this letter going to show up in? No-ones. Then why the fuck am I writing…
The bark of apple trees, injured by nails, drip stem juices.
Their heads swim in smoky dizziness.
Agitating monkeys are flung down to the grassy floor.
Bloodred tongues roll them up.
Constellations approach them,
and before crushing them reveal their true visage: carnivorous teeth.
We write trash. All of us. Our first drafts are trash. Our published works are trash. Our words are trash. Our sentences are trash. Our stories are trash. The poems we write are trash. The poems we haven’t written are trash. The books we love the most are trash. They were the beginning of this avalanche…