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.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 14
reading list entries 4
comments 14
reads 244
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.