Here is an attempt to write.
As all attempts go, I should
think that every particle of insight
would be thrown as a bullet into the nether of supernovas
to tap the somnolent king of sleep
and wake him from his slumber.
But what would i say when i do?
when his gestulating jaw ceases
the crunching, grinding, undulating fro and to;
displeases him, i see i do, to shatter his ethereal rest
but then this was just an attempt.
a fitful yet pitiful, arbitrarial thrust
at creativity
the machine's still turning, however.
you will notice i never did change it. that is because it is finished. nothing else will come out. the machinery has stopped turning when the cogs of time shrank past the nasty little churchmouse singing in his corner, with a hymnbook full of nasty and prayers so angsty, the wonders and fulfilments of a second past denies the knowledge, the infinite glory, the aeon flux of industrious pretend-creativity. now i lay myself down, i rest i rest, i sleep i sleep, i fall down the galactic star-floundering universe of my mind, drowning like a fish, upstream like trout.
like trout.
i shout
i magnify and specify
swimmingly
unfalteringly
against the flow.
pen on ink
stone on the mill
the guillotine
on the death-man's hands.
just.
a.
job.
against the flow.
And
it takes
less
time
to
write
a
paragraph
than
a
single
word.
Currently feeling: constrained
