and that's the deal of abandoning shame & pride, and moving back home, and listening to the crises of the middle aged... guess what: often more than you bargained for, living the life with another women, and then only going back for a funeral of the forgotten fogged over skeletal lassoing of a cow with arthritic "humour"; **** takes a punch... and ****: so much history goes into an argument, you almost end up forgetting the 1998 world cup! or world war II! but then again: sometimes... that's all that ever happens, and how much you hate to construct a "perfect" life faςade.

usually after a father son arguments ends:
the sun makes his father
lunch, garlic & balsamic vinegar infused
mayo sandwiches, enough pork,
and enough veg... that's called:
an argument settled, which ended:
not one of these families, around us
can claim to be perfect.

the point being, by writing you'll never
make any money,
and you never will,
  and it's twice as hard to "pretend"
you're writing, under a roof of
a respectable manual labourer -
as i say to him:
    you know what i'd give to perfect
your skill? my right arm...
he works his *** off, while i sit on
my *** all day, saying:
how can i compete with works that
were written with a quill?
       point being: i can't!
             i can usher in a thousand
****-abouts in quick-hand via
a keyboard, but, as history usually cites:
i'll never reach the zenith of
a "classical" output...
so much for that balsamic vinegar /
garlic infused mayo...
  and so much for the sandwich...
         last time i checked i was the first
person in the family to go to uni,
and the second to visit a *******...
while also the first to perfect rolling
a cigarette from crude basics of rollie,
filter tip, & tobacco...
       we went through my life's mistakes,
and we didn't really encounter his,
but then i said:
  i admire what you do,
it's manual labour, sure, it is,
it's demeaning,
but you perfected it,
  you hardly think about it,
but you still do it like an artist -
and he says: a man my age ought to
be behind a desk, with a computer screen
in front of him,
   and i say to him:
listen, even i don't own the complete computer
parameters,
   i can't do spreadsheets!
           last night i was checking
the acronyms c.c. and b.c.c. in an email...
   sure as **** i don't need spectacles to type,
but i'm hardly savvy in these areas...
no one's perfect all walks of life,
  and no one can be an einstein aged 8...
so i repeat:
      i'm not the perfection you'd find in
a mailing catalogue...
  so i say: i know that writing gets me nowhere,
and buy me nothing,
  but i want to allow writing a chance,
to perfect it into an automaton medium...
   i want to write automatic,
without a single though allowed to
"perfect" it...
    i want to become the solid aiming
          carpenter of written-unsaid...
           which is how it always was...
pave to poverty, and from poverty to no
saintly stature of st. assisi...
                    becoming an artist under
the curtain of a labouring father in
the guise of carpenter, roofer, blacksmith,
you are bound to pinnacle on the guilt...
   but as i said to him:
besides the vanity, maybe my words
are needed,
   so that some middle-aged ******* can
spell-check a few decades later,
   and find out that his theory was not:
all that...
                   people always seem to complain
about my drinking...
little do they realise, how often i complain
about their sobriety,
  and how insidiously boring it oft becomes;
i.e. most people are as cringeworthy
sober, writing about drunk,
as a simon & garfunkel song;
can i have some walnuts,
            and a nutcracker, please?