Today I met up with a poetry friend to do some writing. He was massively hungover, so we didn’t get much done, but I did bash out something as part of an exercise we did together.
The aim was to write a sonnet which, he told me, has 14 lines. We alternated setting parameters for the lines, like ‘must have a colour in’ ‘must contain 8 syllables’ etc etc. My attempt is below…
The toilet contents were blood red
Jesus, that’s not good he thought.
It was as if his very essence had gushed out of him like a waterfall.
He flushed the toilet so he didn’t have to face it.
A wave of dizziness – uh.
His face went white he saw in the mirror.
A knocking at the door ‘Are you OK in there?’
‘Fine.’ he called out.
He paused, and lifted the lid.
The bowl was a mess, so he grabbed up some paper to clean it.
Jesus, this is not good.
The horror film image flashed back to his vision.
He grabbed the toilet brush and scrubbed.
He didn’t see a doctor for months. Because men don’t.