Welcome to my new pad!

Well, this is rather deceiving, isn't it? I look like I've been here for aaaages with all these months of posts, and yet, this is my first proper post on Blogger and this nice new shiny blog. Still working on the look of it, but fontssss, yes I do, I do love fonts. See how easy this is to read? *grins happily*

Anyway, the conversion to Blogger wasn't made lightly. I didn't know you could convert and was initially intending on just leaving Wordpress and starting over, but that prospect was rather scary given my track record of not finishing things, and this blog being something I'd actually kept going with (shock&horror). So I made another blog here, set it up and then closed it so nobody but me can see it because I discovered I could convert everything over, and all would be good in my blogging world. The other blog will be used for something else when I can think of something.

So, looking forward to new things and fonts and experimenting with themes (so if the background keeps changing, don't worry about it, I'm just rather indecisive) and saturating this place with more yukky poetry. I apologise in advance. Oh, also a writing update on novels/novella coming soon. Figured I should actually write something about writing for once.

Also, previous posts may be a bit odd in formatting, or alignment issues or in posts with pictures, have some bits of script randomly. This is just from the conversion and at some point I'll go back through my old posts and try and fix some of the problems. Mostly they're quite small, and the poetry posts all seem fine from when I checked through everything, so yeah, I'll get to the others in due time. :)

Tootles for now~
Lykaios

Hide

Where sand dunes beneath the sea
move like duvet folds, slowly and creasing
as age does over faces,
little fishes slide through the silence
of sheets and blow bubbles through fibres.
Or perhaps they hear in colour
and match the shades of milky oceans
to their own dances, practised at night
while Iapetus closes his doors and wraps
a yellow sheet about himself.

Some sailors think porpoises speak
in tongues. Prophets for the pools, they pay
my toll fee in pearls and tell me I am
drowning.
Loose skin peels back like lace.
Do you see my bones yet?
I could lie here and sleep through
fairytales until you do.

Last chance to breathe the corals,
to study the sand for lost war helmets
and old tridents made of shells.
They shatter when you touch them;
bare skin’s an acid.
If fish could paint,
drowned cliffs would tell of gods
and clowns, and how the blue above shakes
leaves through open windows. Evergreen
in the real world, they’ll say,
everblue if you keep breathing.