On Writing At All.

it is difficult to get fired up about writing, for me because i allow myself distracted errs to occur, and at times it can be the emotional fuel for the obvious instances of procrastination… i have been the bad guy and the good gone ugly far too far gone to comply with the rules and regulations of these dreamy feelings i seek, to try to condense and compress that skill into the substance of what writing is takes energy that can wear thin when spread over a short period too quickly, and it is the emotional in-between that flits fickle in that electrical limbo gap of conscious meeting in this plane of the physical… the tired drops of consciousness effused within the limbs and stray extremities that sometimes move of their own intuition are generally inspired by limited engagements with the imaginative lines trailing where some would think leads to nothing or naught, but all is not lost i say, the Muse light the fire ablaze on the back of sarcastic displayed resistance to this thing i am not to be today… the burden of the beast with mind alike in such a way as no casual joy can be found in the simple words strung together loosely as though interjected by the amateur who is in this merely for the money, and knows a way to find a profit or a prophet when they seize one, this oily discharge the wrath of god whose bones were used to make my bread fluffy and rise with only the effort required of the artistic shaman at work in the modern sense of decay… not a baker’s dozen for anyone, to mean there is an end is to end by all means the expression made-up to look pretty to anyone who might fall for the trap this crap made from symbols that i have whittled away, and the pretty vacant stay away… oh so pretty vacant, speaking in tongues that no one can see when you wing it like a dove flying over the holy sea meeting the sky where no corpses ever rise, but instead it is the spirit that glides into the clouds and into the stars while the body falls back into the womb of recreation… relax, you are going to be Here awhile yet, and there is no reason to waste your time fretting away unless you can play a decent tune that expresses in every way your idea of an obvious direction… as no matter what path you follow today, it will always change, or be a static signpost for others to obey as they get there after the fact… when it is the false impressions that take others off track, and then it might be time to do some urban exploring as the whirring, worrying age gets to boring through soul and state and country… where is the free time to get away?… to step into those well-worn shoes, and like the hoarsest horses, raise your traveling voice in a neigh… this may seem quite a bit off the point and off-the-cuff for those that enjoy mature anecdotes or limericks that say something witty and urbane, but this is what I do to please the madnesses within myself, writing for the sake to get it out of the brain… too many lingering thoughts just lead to mold or maybe cancer, a chancre that tears away that integration of the absurd with the sane, and this is what writing leads to for me… the dead end, that runner’s wall on high off endorphins, while the floor writhes and crawls with snakes and scorpions… doctor jones, calling doctor jones, the ancients fixed what was now fucked into oblivion as the world keeps on spinning in some lost and beleaguered home for the decrepit… the gates of hell open pearly to receive us all, and Man’s image floats project behind the mind’s eyes bloody hall, a hot and wet sweltering stench rises up from what you truly are… more than a brainpan collecting the human oils and glandular problems as the more civil among us try to analyze the ailments that wrench us back and forth along the living spectrum, waiting for the engine to explode because we treated the vehicle too poorly, or perhaps for some other karmic debt wherein it creates another parallel reality where we all sit Here reading and laughing at what you wanted me to say anyway… at least, that’s what i think…

Thanks, khet.

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