Thursday, November 19, 2015
Prince of Dead Dirt and stuck like tuna tar-tar to the roof of the last gasping mouth. I should have something to say but not with these words. A death sentence really for a writer without good grammar. I’d rather be a righter. Fix the wrongs, leave the unforgotten to their misery. I will have a long bath or a long walk, something like that. Spinning in my grave above ground with the others. Toss a dreary aside my way. Looking for the time of day, it is not in the Times. It might be half drunk and passed out. The great groans of the masses and the grim reality which passes. I shall have my tea and biscuits, my PB&J. Let us walk together in the trenches and the tree lined streets. The boulevards of screaming filth they will not hear our cries. The crisis will march towards us, not away.
Friday, October 02, 2015
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Flower of the month. Stuck in my mouth. Business side down. My energy up. Young, bitter and bored: constant aggravation. A smart-ass frustrated by the dim-witted. The devil, you know. Degenerated beyond the magic that music makes in your head. My energy up. My energy up. Please sing me songs of days gone by. History as you find it. The underwhelmed are eternal, or perhaps the plain old whelmed. I’ll not give up the ghost at any price. Segue to a downhill stroll. Flower on the mouth. Shucked corn and radiate. Star finder set towards the night sky. Radar radio, nonsuch. A great list of things written down of things for me to do. A great list set in time set in motion. Stand alone against the tree breeze. Stand alone in the garden. Grabbing at straw.