I am working on an absolutely awful poem right now, revolving around the theme of being conformed unto what you gaze upon. In eight-and-six. Oh, and it rhymes. It was already tortuously long this morning, when I was going to post it for your general amusement as an example of a poem that obviously wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, I though to clean up a few loose ends first and… well, it’s still not done. It’s currently at 66 lines, and my guess is that I’ve said nearly half of what needs to get out to complete the flow I’ve already set.
Ghastly.
neumatikos 