I've been cleaning my room, which is inordinately satisfying.
The unexpected thrills include coming across bits you forgot you wrote and feeling like you're reading the work of a stranger. It's weird.
Here's one poem... yes, let's call it a poem... that I found. I think I must've written it last year some time.
everything is charming everything
blood guiding blood
(dark magic of the theatre)
we expect a new person
like the buxom blonde in
the box, chopped up and
restored at the wave of a wand.
But people are not
made new but
a paler shade of
We want new. We want
We get the washing up.