deepundergroundpoetry.com

Junk Journalling 101

 
 
My father has jam jars
full of nails in the shed
for emergencies
 
half of B&Q is stashed  
behind the summerhouse  
incase of some disaster  
that requires a sturdy plank
of 2 x 4.
 
I have no idea what  
that shit means.
 
Now, I’m aware  
there’s a drawer in my kitchen
full of seeds and voucher clippings
 
a pouch of buttons in the spare room
next to the bag of broken jewels  
I’ve magpied into a corner
 
one pot for ribbons,
two envelopes of bus tickets,
a box of letters from anyone  
I’ve ever loved.
 
I don’t know what that shit
means either.
 
They’re making  
junk journals now.
There’s a whole community
of trash ferrets sorting their wares  
into carefully curated piles.
 
I started today
 
page one of a dedication
to the lessons of my father,
an ode to the dysfunctional  
hermit that savagely squats  
in the cave of my chest
 
old leaves, crow feathers,  
dried ferns curling brown pages
into an artist’s impression  
of my Gods,
my life.
 
I don’t want my days  
to be clean and tidy, I won’t  
wipe away the curious
from the altar of minimalism  
 
my book will be brash,
entirely hammer-fisted
 
it will scream
I was here, world—
 
I fucking existed.

 
Written by Northern_Soul
Published
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