why do you think i'm some puny
Bruce Springsteen song monologue?
trapped in some high-school
macabre memorisation of Monday?
i loved the army routine of
Catholic schooling, the uniform
and the very clearly liberal
library choice of books that no one
really cared to notice...
Stendhal was there, the Gnostic
heresies were there, people minded
free periods "studying" for their A-levels
than reading the books...
well... more like Kit-Kats in Salmons
at South Park peeping Tom's salivating D.
now i could join to being really
nostalgic, what with me
French braid and girls getting wet
and ******* in year 10 and 11
me being in year 13...
this ain't a Bruce Springsteen song...
this ain't no glory days memorandum...
i worked like Proust from after what was said
was enough to make any man want
to die sooner... even the supermarket
attendees are dubbing me the
nickname: Russian Roulette...
70cl of a whiskey a night... they're betting
on the night when i start joking with
Rasputin in marshmallow clouds;
well, you know,
us peasants can't joke with the urban people
about crude affairs concerning Greece...
esp. not with the "ladies",
us peasants never made it with the urban lazy-girls,
we were sorta treated like *******
given the motto: ****** goes in, does his job,
****** exits... Shakespeare fills the rest,
i mean rhyming caricature *** in bed
while you read a book and she played a video game;
typical politics that always excluded the butcher
and the baker,
because all that mattered was how one nobility
spawned the iron maiden, and the other nobility
gave thought to acorns being harvested for nourishment...
and of course, much latter, wheat for dough...
still that other nobility, having exhausted the pleasures
of *** giving birth to torture instruments and
****... while the lesser nobility took more pleasure
from taking a ****... ease that loaf of **** out to every
Hellenic gods' non-involvement in
trivial tribunals of: what goes in and what
goes out, where and when... v. what goes in and what goes out,
where and when doesn't matter...
what's with the memorisation of school?
it's like we keep a fetish of being constantly ready for
being schooled... my memory circuit?
****... hangover... what's the last thing i ate?
what was the last thing i wrote?
and that's pretty much the end of all possible the ends.