writing to a few has become wearisome,
so wearisome i'm about to give up,
and when i do i'll be relieved,
i'll finally enjoy drinking and not talking
rather than my version of slapstick humour
in mime, i.e. doing the excess body language
shaking off phantoms of ghosts enticing
signatures in the frost of car glass.*

carbon monoxide in cigarettes is most
effective after a dinner or a midnight feast.

man, i'm just tired, touch too irksome,
i have 10,618 poems on my facebook page
that no one will read,
i'm about to publish a book, yes papyrus
print on the continent, but
i can't be bothered to feel excited,
i feel like alexander dumas having written
so many novel but only being remembered
for the three musketeers,
and that's how it's supposed to be...
but it's so damnable, i can't believe i'm
to enact a constant here, of myself or some other,
it's can't be so damnably courteously 70 years in
and nothing more,
one might say: one thing to conquer the world
and loose a soul, another to conquer the world
and loose all sense of continuity of furthering
generations of brown-nosing a mozart...
the joker's interpretation of nietzsche:
what doesn't **** you... only makes you stranger...
i have no fighting spirit left in me
to pay honesty to the maxim, as philosophers
are quick to maxim / maximise a non-existent
exemplification, in their spare-time they provide
all eloquence of a stated truth but no example to follow:
i could write you 20 maxims about something,
but none of them would be true had i to write
about it in transit of experience.