Stop writing? I’d rather stop breathing. Need a nightcap. For sense. The blend now me bores. My rattler, in motion.
This poet, animalistic. I glow, no altruistic. The
other writers, too old. Can’t stand the new bold.
You, recite the same lines; you, a lame mime. Mike,
like a stray nine bullet. Just glass grip, sip. Load clip,
no blip on the radar. You weightless pig, delusional.
Too fake, not big. Thee, lose in full. I capitalize
while you’re sad in the eyes. No surprise.
I apologize. Shouldn’t waste my Literaries on the inept. This character could never battle me. Going back and forth, between placidity, turbulence. Interesting, this embrace of Aesthetic dichotomy. Peace to Mom, Dad, Katie for the sense.
Thinking of days, as a PROFESSOR. Why would I let other ripples, laughably inconsequential, rumble this artisanal terrain? I’m like Depp in “Secret Window,” candid, cunning. The rain continues, urging me to dive into the Consciousness stream. Wine, lecturing me. Evanescent, elusive, erotic. Love Living Literary, something the plain can’t appreciate. That’s fine, the sips me tell, from this Napa Valley Cab. Beneficial ...