the disruptor,
the fucker,
the pisser, usually in non-piss venues,
walked into the toilet i am,
start pissing at the sink,
... man washing his hands cups
and i fill up,
he looks at me and i say
'hold it', he does-my drink
'not that fucker!'
and i motion to my dick
my companion anticipates a fight,
but i finish, zip up
and take my drink from the hand washers hand,
'we go' i say,
and i be let out by the arm
for the second show
2 comments:
i dont write poetry.
just write brain burps.
my greatest fear is to become brain dead - sucked in to the daily grind. or am i saving up for a grande mental finale: no stalemates allowed in this big game of chess.
been in a state of non-communication
been in a state of solitude and inner thinking
been in a state of charging batteries
been in a state of wondering
the wheels turn... on and on and on and on and on.....................
............ question why
........... answer wny not
let the plans bloom and the cosmos explode.
let's us meet again - the knives have been sharpened, the skills honed. we are not part of the puppets/ muppets of this world.
don't let the boogey man get you
DH gonna take his time with his thoughts
DH gonna take his time to write something else
impatience curtails the next insight
you think perhaps DH may like this:
Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient "interest" in the voyage; half hinting that they are so hopelessly lost to all ambition, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have left their opera-glasses at home.
"Why, thou monkey," said a harpooner to one of these lads, "we've been cruising now hard upon three years and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarcer than hens teeth whenever thou art up here." Perhaps they were, or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the cadence of waves with thoughts that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some indiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it.
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