Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Cut and paste and save and sigh. Sigh some more and stare at the count – one hundred and fourteen fusty words – pure. Puree pure.
Finger inside sock band – flap, flap, flap. Grasp and release. Almost to rock in the chair like a darker self could. Not no. Not will that. Not to be like that. Not that man. Legs cramping. Too many knots inside. Put the foot to the floor. Try not to rhyme. Leave that to the sonnets. Number eighteen. Eighteen stabs at her heart and still – no blood drawn. Ketchup. Only ketchup.
A noise. No, not that again. No not nonny no. A hand to the face, finger to an eyebrow. Only a spot. Out damned finger. An itch is better than a pain. Don’t touch the itch. Don’t touch. She always says don’t touch.
Grasp at air as a fist made firm. Free a force in fingers that have caressed a keyboard. Caressed an ear? No. Caressed only keys. Making the words. Building the lines. Stack, stack, stack them one by one to become a sonnet. Another bloody sonnet.
Text the rest to me. Text it, text it, text it. Hang the bloody text. No. Quiet. Quiet.
Tip an arse to the right. Release the fruit of the beans. She does. I do. Haha, that will truly shake the darlings. But such a comfort in one’s own stench. Homely. Breathe deeply. Breathe through the circle of life. The cycle. Then in. Then out. Let it all out.
Mouth. So … raises hands to feel the air between the fingers. Pushing inside. Pushing. If not sense then what? A slash across the heath? A scratch across. Beneath the hair. Getting there. Where.
No. No. No. Not the rhyme. Not in normal time. Never stare.
Past the edge of the page. Nothing new. Cup of tea – that’s the charm. More biscuits. You can’t see that way. That way. That way to copy to copy to copy an elder Will. An older will. An inheritance. She’ll never know. She of the chips. She of the ketchup. She of the flies – lordy lady mayor of the flies.
Cup of tea.