04-12-2013, 05:48 AM
Feel v dissattisfied with this offering but not got anything else... everyone else seems to be able to churn out brilliant poems at a moments notice. I feel like i'm working really hard to produce rubbish. (Blood out of a stone and all that 
). Does anyone else ever go through periods of being unable to write to save thier lives? In my third week of this, hoping if i just keep at it, it will pass.Devon Redlands.
Bleeding, slowly leaching sun fed goodness, this gritty
land of soft sandstone is enclosed within a granite
heart. By nature a desert dweller, submerged and crushed,
refined in earthy fires, that thirst for red and golden dust;
in threads, that shattered and flowed in breccio outbursts.
These now laid out in deep fertile beds with alluvial heads.
Deeper yet are coves of limestone, subterranean rivers
that flow from Alpine fields, bypassing Flanders and Maginot;
natural lines, mineralised for clarity. They rise, welling up
shiny, hard and foreign, compared to the Moor-stone overflow
soaked through black loam, sullen and brackish, prone to pooling
in localised collects. Soft and flaccid like a third day corpse.
Layered and pleached into the headlands and hedges are the ghosts
of marching men, who steeped in rebellion, took five wounds
to be hung on granite crosses, drawn into the pages of history before
they were finally quartered in grave situations. The martyred remains
of pride, bell-less, smell-less, denied the beer and cake of Popeish reign;
limey pebbles who smouldered in sullen dismay, to await the next affray.