I have problems with it. I do. A lot. Moffat is sometimes this sexist, rabidly anti-asexual contrived bullshitter and, yet, in all of the tangles and knots he manages to create a 78 minute absolute fangasm. I shrieked in pure joy, I lost my marbles and had to try very hard not to sob too loudly. I won’t forgive him for his social idiocies but I will happily tip my hat that he finally bridged Classical and New Who.
Reading my old poetry and laughing in sheer embarrassment. I considered deleting it but I’m just going to let all of the poems stay online as a hidden, pretentious and often grammatically incorrect welcomes.
Tendrils of fungus with clingfilm of grass-wrap
Wrapping around trees, the ground and sullen remains
A pattern of a web, stretching out into endless threads,
the blueprint of the universe.
The same stain of neural nodes, the same map as heartbeats
and cell structures and the very universe.
Perhaps it’s continual marriages of coincidences,
or is it simply the same artist using the same technique
over and over, with every brush of matter upon this
easel of reality simply bearing the same
I see it in my dreams, in my blood, in my body and brain.
For I began as a web, so too will I end as one.
A piece of nothing, wrapped around moss with
tendrils of fungus with clingfilm of glass-wrap,
that adorns the trees, the ground and, my, sullen remains.