The reflection of my butt hairs
In the toilet water has anyone ever written of this who would even bother, strange beauty of another kind or the mark of a muddled mind. What else is out there that goes unrecorded what weirdness remains (best) unreported. Is there any internal vagary, personal sickness, sad anomaly deserving no witness no publicity divulgences shitty confessions not pretty too much, information best not discussed. What benefit exists for these sick trysts flirtations with grotesquery masquerading in poetry (if you can call it that).
It gets to the larger matter of typing this chatter my dialogue with myself, best left on the shelf. The truth is I’ve removed more notebooks from their Tupperware file seeking some other looks into past style (to see if it’s still fresh). Scribble new nonsense here on the boat typing old nonsense cheating at work. No one but me has a vote, no one but me is able to shirk, with such aplomb, APLOMB? Diligently avoiding any semblance of productivity displaying this proclivity for goofing off.
Tired of this. The question is will I look at all this when I’ve finished typing and see how sordid how stupid and frightening revealing this to others would surely be. A long stream of words betraying me. Bipolar. What does that mean? Put a name to it sure, give drugs to cure, but what if in stabilizing we’re kept from realizing some other other otherwise unknown. His collective knowledge grown or will poor readers groan bemoaning my moaning, they’d just look away, silent embarrassed nothing to say, avoid him, ignore him maybe he’ll soon go away. Stop this excursion display of perversion another version of art half-assed, reflected in toilet water as gas is passed, a fecal non-starter so just let it go there’s no good cause for you to show such putrid thoughts to the world’s robots. Disclosure exposure un bon mots.