[the exact wording is 'bruises blooming aubergine' at the moment, so there's alliteration, too, which is why he's worried about the pretentiousness. he looks down, studies the page, then looks back up at Claude.]
It's meant to be androgynous. Anyone.
[he slides the notebook across the table so he can see, careful not to bump the coffee cup. it's all written in an iambic pentameter that almost seems accidental, though every word is carefully controlled - chaos within precise margins, an attempt to wrestle details of life not often discussed onto the paper. the sort of thing people who turn their back on the truths of the world would find hard to read, and react with either anger or disgust. those who know life for what it is, though: hard, and beautiful, and ugly, and spontaneous? their reactions to his writing always vary, but they always keep reading. they don't push it away. that's the one thing he's always found, when he writes. no matter what it's about, no matter what Claude might see in it. because that's the thing about Simon Grim's poetry: no one sees the same thing, either.]
no subject
It's meant to be androgynous. Anyone.
[he slides the notebook across the table so he can see, careful not to bump the coffee cup. it's all written in an iambic pentameter that almost seems accidental, though every word is carefully controlled - chaos within precise margins, an attempt to wrestle details of life not often discussed onto the paper. the sort of thing people who turn their back on the truths of the world would find hard to read, and react with either anger or disgust. those who know life for what it is, though: hard, and beautiful, and ugly, and spontaneous? their reactions to his writing always vary, but they always keep reading. they don't push it away. that's the one thing he's always found, when he writes. no matter what it's about, no matter what Claude might see in it. because that's the thing about Simon Grim's poetry: no one sees the same thing, either.]