Massive geek that I am, I have been attending a night class in Creative Writing. Whilst things have not gone quite as hoped (that everyone would fall to their knees and proclaim me one of the greatest undiscovered writers of the 21st Century), the teacher is nice, and it's not ALL middle aged women. That said, regardless of age most of them are complete dullards - albeit accomplished ones who seem to have unending ways to describe clouds and skies and trees and shit* . It is good to have an ego kicking reminder that I am utterly crap at spelling and grammar - lord know I forget, being my own editor, publisher and worst enemy - but the public lesson infront of the Weatherfolk is a bit galling.
For example, it took me two days to write the below poem. And, after reading it out to a class of twenty odd people, about a minute to realise that I have a very weak grasp on the concept of syllables.
The Demise of Commerce (and abuse of 9 syllable lines)by Biche.
Dusty glued plants in a strip lit mall
Scents thick and sweet creep from the Food Hall
Smooth blue cream towers of china rise
Flapping scarlet sale signs sieze the eyes
Shop owners haggle, scowling, degraded
Carved dragons loom large, claws chipped and faded
Gold plastic glints, yet bright in the gloom
But darkness and still come first of June
Oriental City turns into a tomb.
Quite.*not literally shit
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