As usual I’m getting sloppy with updates again, but then, since my second-to-last post (my last one being something of a cop-out anyway), I’ve started uni again, and apparently this year they actually expect us to do work. A little at least. It’s not too bad: I’m doing a 50% dissertation, which means that 50% of my final degree comes for a 10,000 word essay I have until April to complete, and the other half comes from an 8,000 word prose project, of which I’ve already written the first 4,000 words of the first draft (more on that in a minute).

I’d be lying if I said I’d been devoting myself entirely to uni work and that’s the reason I haven’t updated, at least partially. Other primary influences are, to a small extent my job, which remains amazing, because a) there’s very few customers, and, unless they ask for wine recommendations, are generally low maintenance and b) I work with some pretty cool people who I have both opportunity and inclination to converse with at length.

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I rarely write poetry, mostly because I’m not very good at it and rarely enjoy it. Here’s one I found the other day that I wrote a while ago though. I can’t tell if it’s any good or not by any standards other than my own, but I would say it’s ‘alright’ if nothing better:

Bank Holidays

I don’t think many people die on bank holidays
leastways, they probably don’t have funerals on bank holidays.
Rain excites me on those days, but mostly the clouds
seem too bored to drop it, or even move aside for the sun.
I wish the shops didn’t close; I wanted some tea.
I wanted rose tea, because of the soft petal-taste
and the bitter black after-taste.
Cathode Ray pixels brand my eyeballs when I close them,
so I look out the window and the trees look back,
forlorn now, since the wind took their feathers.
I mean leaves. It’s not a day for poetry.