If you don't want to then you could at least pretend
That the paper's your soul and your blood's in the pen
And maybe then you'd see the light
And read the truth that you had to write
Thirty-nine letters of malnutritious sustenance from one mad individual to another madly in love with the concentric nature of the world. It's like reading bad hailstorm trips just shearing bolts through flimsy inside-out umbrellas. A great little book plot, no? All tangled in a plethora of soon to be extinct candied ideas, reused and re-eaten, A-B-C style as kids on the playground slide and gum-stuck see-saw. Such a rush seeing scotrail tickets with an accompanying Kundera nuzzling in a dim lamp pool quite near the Neruda of my brain. Just a sensual book club for novels to swing and slam their readied ideas for anyone willing to hear the ohs and ahs. I have the notion that the I's and me's far outweigh the it's and they's, the relative assumption of beings and bodies and snatched up cloaks and masks to hide in and abide much as they did before. And oh, that was a nasty bugger of a sentence trying to stretch some simplicity. I suppose it will merely suffice to be brief and thoughtless while I'm attempting to think.
Should it take so much effort to create something grand, or is it more proper than my entire existence and thus come only with the simplest of dimpling at the edge of the paper. What god I have come to be, more impotent then the diabetic with circulatory disease, humbled by my own abject humanity slowing shedding like molted snake and skin rolling in the arid desert heat, a truncheoning burden if I do say so. I need some dialogue and a few more characters of appeal to me. Someone of a female form, warm as every woman should be, but more so divine in an unspeakable sense, like a twisting of dagger and nail in my own coffin.
The attention to problem lies in my obsession to detail. Exogenous little silly creatures that you are, you fascinate me in such a morbid sense, a downright hideous development that I am nearly certain I can divert or stunt or punctuate. Claymation movies have the same effect as masturbation, just brining thing to a head, making the dead move again in a torturously sick joke. Dance marionettes in a little dirge, please, because we all know the dead never stay dead for very long, too bored with the overcast shadows, too bored with the musty satin trimmings, and the pillow must be absolute hell.
I shudder to think what lies on the other half of my brain, like a bad Pink Floyd album it could be absolute LSD silverfuck, just a shatteringly devious pitfall for such a daft prat as myself, who thought it only proper to search for that which made it all awesomely real. Could just be an overgrown garden of retro ideas, budding ming vases, and carpeted temples to random items from the clearance rack at a Kmart near you.