So basically I was in this creative writing seminar. Everyone was reading their poems about things and the lecturer was commenting on how sick we were at poetry and stuff occasionally and we were all handing out sheets of paper with our poems on them to the class and writing things on them if we felt that that was a necessary thing to do.
“I particularly liked the metaphor about (insert metaphor). That was a tremendous image, it really was,” the lecturer might say about someone’s poem.
“Yeah that was really good actually,” someone else might have said.
A guy called Dave who always wore burgundy Superdry clothes had to read his poem. I really didn’t like Dave’s poetry, because it was a bit depressing and sometimes a bit pretentious.
We marched together, like imperial soldiers
your arm round mine, tied to my ulna like rope
up the mountains, as if Ben Nevis was only a hill
and you were my perfect future.
“Nice one Dave,” we all said.
One student covered her eyes with her hand in order to conceal a tear which had escaped from her face.
“Are you okay?” the lecturer asked Hannah.
“I’m fine! I’m fine!”
“It was a very touching poem,” the lecturer conceded.
“I’m fine! Fine!” she said, endeavouring to cover her face now more than ever- which had turned vermillion.
She was probably fine. She just had an extremely personal connection with heartfelt verses, such as the ones that Dave produced every week, that was all.
“Thank you Dave. Thank you very much.”
Dave smiled to himself and put his pen in his mouth feeling a bit satisfied with himself and also a bit like Sartre. It was my turn to read a poem now. Which one should I read? errrm errrm errrrm errrrm…
As I was deciding, I saw the lecturer withdrawing a pouch of Golden Virginia from his pocket. I decided to read the one about the depressed squid that I’d been working on for a few weeks.
Then the lecturer pulled out a pack of King-sized rizzla.
I float through Sea, I float through the salty water
like an octopus (but I am actually a giant squid)
“Sorry to interrupt James, does anybody have a train ticket or something? Making a roach you see.”
“Yeah sure,” Caroline handed the lecturer a train ticket (rather obsequiously). Everyone fancied the lecturer to a certain extent.
“Thanks. Do continue James,” the lecturer said as he effortlessly crafted the perfect roach.
I plunge through the darkness, propelled
like an extra-terrestrial missile, armed only
with my tentacles of cruelty and contempt.
I looked over to my lecturer who had now ground some weed and was gently dispersing it across the tobacco, until there was little left to see within the paper but a thick blanket of powdery light green leaves. The smell of haze spread across the room like a friendly cloud. I continued…
I have an eye that is too big, and terrifies everyone.
Why do I move in bursts, why do I buffer through the sea?
I don’t belong here. I am depressed.
The class showered me with applause.
“Wow James that was probably your best yet I reckon,” one said.
“I loved the buffering. Squids do move like that!” said another.
“I love the way you portray depression as a thing that affects creatures as well as human beings,” another.
“You’re a genius James.”
“Thanks,” I smiled.
There was a bit of a silence. The lecturer revealed an extremely long and perfectly shaped spliff, removed a key from his pocket and packed the top down nicely. Then he folded the top over, preferring the folded approach to the twisted one. We all know that the folded approach is the more sophisticated, and that the lecturer had definitely made the right decision there. The lecturer tapped the finished product on the table and held it between two knuckles.
“Well I have to say James. That was an outstanding poem. How do you come up with stuff like that? You’ll have to tell me some day… anyway in the mean time, I think you’ve deserved it; would you like to do the honours?” the lecturer handed me the spliff and a bright red clipper with a massive yellow smiley face on it.
I lit the spliff and it was really harsh. Then I passed the spliff all the way round and everyone had some.
“Great seminar guys!”
Then we all went home really stoned and wrote a bit more poetry.
[…] Source: A Creative Writing Seminar […]
You’re a fucking twat and I hope you choke on your father’s penis.