i truly find the spontaneity of poetry heart-breaking, notably with the mundane ambitiousness of writing a novel of novelists, and their lack of the ever expanding lexicon... novelists are merely tools for me, oh sure, effective, hammers do what hammers were ought to do, but nonetheless boring... then again there's always the gamble... the least prolific novelists can sometimes crack it, while the most prolific poets sniff a ****'s worth of appreciation... whatever the lottery, the losers always grit the win and settle for: bashing uncle sam out of his stupor for the working hard vs. the ones hardly working. never mind, i once talked to a woman who liked me about trophy wives... trophies, wives?! in guess so... besides that, i always found aesop more trustworthy than jesus christ; i never understood undermining aesop, and gaining anything from that "jew".

most people find god boring...
sure, i agree,
but then i find the holiday narratives
of people a tad bit more...
the meow before the great sleep...
point being:
the former is structured around
the unanswered, subsequently
unanswerable given the democratic
chip-in,
         the latter?
a suntan and the boredom of
the "latter day saints'" everyday...
big ******* hoorah while we're
patiently waiting
for some greasy bacon...
and all you get is: oh right,
you in a dinky-boat with a random
dozen of libyans pretending
to be jesus christ? gentlemen! applause!
i sometimes find myself talking to
people who never lived outside the
vicinity of a square mile,
and they sometimes make testimony
to have lived beyond their comfort
zone...
         i start to wonder:
the **** have i been drinking the past
hour?! i was about to perfect a
poached egg using the *heston method...
i can tell you one thing,
if there were no irish about in an
english society, i could have made
the english aware of: i'm pretty sure i've
just saw a turban pass my highbrow,
ol' sinjit gets no pass!
     i think about taking a **** 4 times
a day, and playing the bagpipes twice,
which makes up for thrice the disposable
spaghetti tangles...
       and whenever i heard the term:
pater aureum anca...
     shortchange my ***,
       but it's great: i managed the crumbs,
you managed the moral "conundrum"
of prostitutes...
        how's that working out for you?
i can't imagine you spending all that excess
on romances, dating by buying perfumes!
oh, you have? poor sods...
   tougher juggling turds...
         that heston blumenthal poached egg is
still tickling me...
                        **** it, i'm gonna go
for it...
                  take it seriously?
what, the drinking, or the writing?
                   the year 1998 was pretty serious
to me, notably the french world cup...
           the emergence of the corrs,
and a seriousness of madonna,
   the decline of britpop...
                 and the last / first time i remembered
                   scotland at the global stage;
whatever the summary is,
i dare not bother an inspection of
to ingest...
      that poached egg is stalling all other
thoughts;
      i can't help but feed the thought of
a chicken abortion,
      and how the yoke will satisfy any
sane mind.