No need for introductions, thank Newton for the fluxions.
–1947
Words on the paper make me think about glorious rapiers slashing through the misty forest chopping up the greens like so much potatoes for the porridge, and with this culinary violence I aim to mince no words, though I may miss the sound of fifths or thirds, or what time may have you think is mandatory, I do it with that spice and gory glory so unwelcome in this our porridge’s story, which now heated will offer us with an excuse to dine…
“As if we need that and not more wine! Fuck a porridge!”
Excuse me–and I hate to be a bother, but since the sun is still underground I would find it proper that you remain calm and sober, at least until the break of dawn, lest when the sun comes up you find yourself facing down, trying to clean up what remains from your sleeping gown.
“There is reason for my crankiness and thirst for alteration, and that is that my brain is still hurting from the evening’s celebration.”
Understood but why not ask calmly? “fuck a porridge…” this ain’t exactly a restaurant, you see, and I spent time working on it for you and me. Apologies, if offered, will quickly be accepted but I insist that then with your wine the porridge will also be digested and in due time your head will be redirected.
“I’m sorry. Now can I drink so that once again I may think?”
You may, but don’t you fool yourself, my boy. There’s employment always to be found in fool’s errands, but it is not from lack of work that you chase these red herrings. Why seek what cannot be had by having what should not be sought so often that your self gets muddled in the process? said I as the porridge plopped into a pithy plate. The wine was poured, it was from the red grapes of grandpa’s vineyard, an eye opener if I ever saw one, and I’ve seen a plenty, the boy himself requesting naything except the silence of his quarters as I leave him to his own devices the porridge now cold but seasoned with plenty spices.
2021–
–1920
Gotta stay modified like some shaved wolf in a woolen coat, trampling freely over grass with impunity, a paid vacation from brutality, traded my suit for tenpence a hair but now I run with a glint of despair, looking for that land of milk and honey– all I need is stinkin money, but the fare is more expensive than what hair can get me, need to impress, need to pay fees, for nothing in the world is free, and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sheepish fellows now rockin that wolf fashion, scaring and scarring neighbors and children, while I graze on grass with broken down feelings, tell me what makes us fellows so easy to sway, and why it is from ourselves that we stray? Run away but stay sly, fly my son, fly so high to that never ever land of broken promises, the lies they do caress and the image at times fails to impress, but ain’t that the f-ing premise?
Gotta stay modified, like a silly boy with too much pride, like immorality its not what but how you do it, ebbs and tides if not flows and perturbations, of this our sinful nature, are to be analyzed if there is to be hope of figuring out this mess of man, and even then we should be prepared for a change of plan, before these things get entirely out of hand. Like some madman on a stomach bender, my palette–ever so tender in its hues and variations, understatements and overt arrangements… Freedom escapes me as the clock cuts down all finite competition, and as it does, I stare and listen.
1940–
