so what was i "supposed"
to find at the end
of a bottle...
not a hint of chocolate?
i was supposed
to find a chcolate bar...
and not
a ******* submarine
at its nadir?!
please...
i want a way past
the usual suspects of
a curry sauce...
i.e. cardamon, cinnamon,
cumin, coriander...
i'm not joking...
at the end of a grouse...
there's some chocolate...
and not
a ******* submarine?!
so what the hell am
i drinking?
****-joy USA republicanism
says...
my postage stamp
reads IG1
and not RM1...
sprinting
look!
look!
an ostrich is making a runner!
away from providing
the dozen-one
ratio of an omelette...
could have had the stories
of an american marine,
instead,
learned some chemistry...
best i could ever accomplish?
work in a supermarket...
so i thought...
but the pyramids
were already allocated!
you could see them rise...
high, high.
until overshadowing
the clamour of
political maggot speak...
no one tries to state...
because bell's whiskey
is trying to be too much
of laphroaig...
the grouse is lost to
the belgian chocolatiers,
hidden...
who the hell thought
of mingling choc. with whisk.?
john kim /
the angry therapist...
interviewer?
helena de bertodano...
his father, he says,
was an alcoholic,
'he would come home and
vent on the family. he never
told me i was good.'
i'm an alcoholic...
i'm sooner bound to talk
to my shadow than
a person...
as my ex-girlfriend used
to say: good-for-you...
yeah... good for
whatever good is left
for me to heave...
life coach...
or lkie in the american
masterchef...
a contestant,
with an occupational status
of: a professional grocer...
i don't even know what that
is...
be a singer,
cultivate a sing-sing
Monday at the pub
variety of karaoke...
an alcoholic,
no immediate outlet...
scribbles...
françois rabelais...
and a book
that contains all
the signatures
of a formidable
counter-plagiarist...
gustave doré...
you wish you could
copy him...
i almost forgot...
that i was thinking of
albrecht dürer...
you can almost confuse the two...
gustave doré conta
albrecht dürer...
itches of all of one's worth
culminating
in a crescendo
of suspect
irritation...
how could i ever confuse
gustave doré
with albrecht dürer?
i must be assimilating
a dyslexic approach!
