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.