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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| If You Had Time To Kill by Read This (post coded, except for this, by Smirk, except for…) Do you have some place to be? Let me know the moment you do go. Book title: If You’re Trying To Capture Perfection, I Have Sad News Book Title: In Pursuit Of Perfection: No New News Since Utopian Ideals Book Title: Perfect! Is How I Know Dystopia Exists Book Title: Perfection Is A Beautiful Thing That Doesn’t Covet Democracy Book Title: Nihilism Trying To Capture Perfection Is Impossible, or, A Vegas Magic Trick Book title: It’s Too Late To Debut Me, save yourself and other dramatic thoughts surfacing like oxygenated bubbles of a boiling bath, not broth yet. So I Tried To Write It by Soup Oxygenated, I breath inside the bubbles breaking surface of a hot bath. Inside each, masterpieces and hellos bled into the atmosphere that chews and eats or spits out all my love. (Could you at least savor for flavor?) Whoever (Whomever?) should breath one in…well, Just listen to the bursted air globule… And let me know…if it’s too wet, or should I just surface to disturb this rolling boil still lacking sustenance? (What goes in this metaphor?) — Hydrogen 12/15/25 I could reevaluate, redesign this. But why? It’s just a bubble of thought that dies as I do. Yeah, dramatic. Were you expecting dark comedy? anti-hero? complicated plot that even loses producer/writer and director? The cinematographer of my still life would like a note on the placement of fruit, contrast of dark on doused light, or if it’s worth debut at the faux film festival. The problem isn’t that I don’t write enough (1), or reflect before composing thoughts (2), but that I can’t stop until it is a train wreck (3). Sorry about the mess? (and repeat the groundhog process expecting different results?) And there you have it — A thought inside a bubble just burst. Aren’t you going to go see? I’m still stuck in the painting Life has composed for me… …would be another collection title Sad part is I can’t put anything together because the soup is unattended. Or, fear that it serves procrastination. That’s another boiling pot on the back burner. I forget about it, mostly. Did Emily Dickinson go through this process? Or, am I a bigger recluse?? What’s my obsession here??? Let me win at something? If I were to post…(longer and post elongated, except for title and byline above that was added last, except for this [it will pay off later, I hope]). Title: Save All The Periods For Me by Blowing Through Stop Signs With Only Commas And Line Breaks (The Above title is post, post, post script… Except for this [hears echoes of a wasted afternoon inside something arriving and hot]). Do you have some place to be? Let me know the moment you do go. Book title: If You’re Trying To Capture Perfection, I Have Sad News Book Title: In Pursuit Of Perfection: No New News Since Utopian Ideals Book Title: Perfect! Is How I Know Dystopia Exists Book Title: Perfection Is A Beautiful Thing That Doesn’t Covet Democracy Book Title: Nihilism Trying To Capture Perfection Is Impossible, or, A Vegas Magic Trick Book title: It’s Too Late To Debut Me, save yourself and other dramatic thoughts surfacing like oxygenated bubbles of a boiling bath, not broth yet.{{font:times} So I Tried To Write It by Soup Oxygenated, I breathe inside the bubbles breaking surface of a hot bath. Inside each, masterpieces and hellos bleed into the atmosphere that chews and eats or spits out all my love. (Could you at least savor for flavor?) Whoever (Whomever?) should breath one in…well, just listen to the bursted air globule… and let me know? if it’s too wet, or should I just surface to disturb this rolling boil still lacking sustenance? (What goes in this metaphor?) — Hydrogen Surfacing 12/15/25 I could reevaluate, redesign this. But why? It’s just a bubble of thought that dies, as I do. Yeah, dramatic. Were you expecting dark comedy? anti-hero? complicated, incepted plot that even loses producer/writers and director? The cinematographer of my still life would like a note on the placement of fruit, contrast of dark on doused light, or if it’s worth debut at the faux film festival. The problem isn’t that I don’t write enough (1), or reflect before composing thoughts (2), but that I can’t stop until it is a train wreck (3). Sorry about the mess? (and repeat this groundhog process expecting different results?) And there you have it — A thought inside a bubble just burst. Aren’t you going to go see? I’m still stuck in the painting life has composed for/of me… …would be another collection title Sad part is I can’t put anything together because the soup is unattended. Or, fear that it serves procrastination. That’s another boiling pot on the back burner. I forget about it, mostly. Did Emily Dickinson go through this process? Or, am I a bigger recluse?? What’s my obsession here??? Let me win at something? How I Mitigate Is Not A Perfect Recipe and I wouldn’t change a single element by isotope? via Aristotle With A Boxed Big Bang Sandwich, And Side Of Brain Gravy An Element met an isotope at a bar for drinks and nine months later a vagina big bang produced a bit of cosmic dust intermingling with all creation since in a widening, welcoming statue of a French woman named Liberty who now says I’m a bastard, but can’t catch me as time keeps us further and farther apart. Is what I would make up on the spot without consulting but my experience meeting experimentation in a lab over a beaker of colored potions to drink and decades later, I arrived unto myself, incepted and aware, but I have nothing in the planner (who am I kidding?) for the rest of time, but to dream adventures of every memory in time vehicles called memories, but the human components are wearing out and it’s hard to get good DNA to replace, as one dose could treat any of my maladies for 3.2 million dollars apiece, but I can’t get my health provider on the phone. — my mitigation, not yours, but I keep…No, secrets. And now I’m done? Not by a long shot. I’ll self-publish and later by a hand-gun to clean my ears Is what I would finally say… except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for this except for that gotcha! Now I have to start all over again. I was born on a Sunday at 2:30 pm. I know this because mom didn’t like to miss work when in labor. I made sure to keep her busy for 39 years before finding someone who’d put up with my crap 30 more. How the hell old am I? Let’s just skip to the end, again. Except for this. Except for that. Dammit! |
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