Okay, post-it-all, zip-it-up. I have to write long lined green biroed lilting dripping lines of poetry on the inside of my brain and hope the paint doesn't run. And that I don't forget how to turn my eyeballs inside-out and roundabout. It's all going to come crashing down and out, I just ha to hold on 'til tomorrow at four.

So, right. I thought I had a handle on these ideas & poems & all of that. Turns out I don't and my mind is a vacous, fast-fading hope to be something better. Prison-balled lines of type, punch, punch, punching their way through. I am not prepared enough at all, but I can't seem to call my limbs into line, and my brain just won't do what it's told. This is the stuff I enjoy, isn't it? Oh dea.r

I must use this summer properly. And I'm not sure how exactly that is. Oh, I will figure it out. Time to be a bit clearer? I don't know, maybe. Less sun, definitely. Ok computer, I have a fever to tell, to tell, to tell and it's so obvious. Deatails inside, as the fratellis said.
I can do this - the romantic sublime, the Byronic hero & anti-hero, and yet. I just can't summon up any enthusiasm.

Where are all these fucking bugs coming from?

I need a cup of tea, and you to stop being so angry. Everything bubbles and bursts and moves on, and who would want to get swallowed up otherwise?

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

last * next