No, I'm not all that angry, relatively speaking, though I am back to work after a generally quiet weekend -- thank you, Redneck Neighbor, for doing your beerdrinkin' n' hellraisin' at the weekly Cracker Twelve Step, thereby permitting me to do gay homersexual commie pinko stuff like writing poetry and italicizing half the text in peace. I simply thought this was a cool pic. C'mon, like you all don't miss Unka Dick a wee bit, you fucking liars.
Speaking of fucking liars, I was one when I lied to myself last night as I lied down in my bed, lying awake, dreaming of naked
my wife, that I was on the right track with the latest offline versification campaign. Alas, no. Maybe. I am, after all, a noted liar, but my pants remain inferno free. No, that's not a Freudian slip, they're actually not on fire, but the drawing board is.
"Which you're holding."
What's frustrating, beyond stinking, charred flesh, is how physically draining writing and/or composing is-ing as you're finding through reeling and teetering hours that you're not capturing yet again-ing the feeling flowing out, an invisible bloodletting, bloody hell it's tiring, resulting in naught but this stultifying lining. Too much melodrama? Fuck off, hipster detachment farmers.
Oh well, I have earned this divine punishment for not spending my time with the important matters of the age like protesting episode #763A of Something Vile That Will Remain Vile And In Power Until The End Of Time® or watching one set of honkey yokels Freudian slip their way through the Sotomayor hearing -- that's a fiction-worthy last name, no? I am Sotomayor. You killed my father. Prepare to die -- while another set of honkey yokels computerizes about just how yokel the first pair of Goldman sacks were. Sorry, Freud, but they don't have the biggest balls of them all, shitass motherfucker.
Watch out for the crayfish. They look angry.