Sunday, September 11, 2005

Hair of the dog. Hair? I’m gonna need the whole fucking dog. Anything to make these voices, these thoughts, ideas, impulses subside, this madness, this manic panic society does deride. It thrills me, it kills me, exhausts and costs me. Leaves me wanting more, a fit, a start, they tear apart my focus on the chore at hand, the demand the task, they ask me to earn and care, I yearn, despair. This flaw inside if they saw how I tried, my struggle to exist, they’d say off-hand, simply, desist. Resist I might yet my plight won’t ever go away, on and on regardless what they say. A choice, my voice, a reason to rejoice, I scrawl and fall a victim to myself, unwilling, unable to put this on a shelf. The calms momentary boring but sedate, the dervish goes sedentary, seethes as it must wait, then unannounced it enters anew, silence denounced, the peace he doth eschew. Eschew? Who the fuck are you?
Beauty and rhythm sublime, searching all the time, for the elusive perfect rhyme. My head hurts, Fred and Ethyl Mertz, Ricky Ricardo, I’m no bard, oh, what a waste of ink, a brain lost to drink. What could you have done, saved (saved?) everyone (from what?) final cut, they dropped him like a gun. There is no waste just a different taste, move at your own pace, never do an about face, you are who you are, patron of bar, jester, protester from afar. The nonsense is only pretense, a way of hiding revolution, keeping from power my revulsion at wealth’s distribution, steeple or tower, my main compulsion is this mastication, verbal masturbation, chewing and spewing words and ideas, poor Eritrea’s and everywhere else’s weak parastelsis, I know it’s peristalsis but tell me what else is the way that unstalls this, the thought’s now long gone, so I keep muddling along, ever anon.

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