No desire to versify my todger. Listen up: in my opinion
it is loathsome that you make me aware that all my blood
is in circulation. Furthermore, I consider it a setback to put
it into writing to tell you this. All in all, it’s cowardly,
but hey: everyone around me’s cowardly, sneaky, expedient and
small-minded. So, am I wrongly playing the fearless milksop?
For in the same way that reality-tv and immersive theatre exist,
so does confessional poetry, a latex allergy, scurvy and dark matter.
You don’t need an expert eye to stare past all those with a death-wish
to the bare causality principle and then keep believing someone
will restore your system to the factory settings – someone who says:
have your vocal pouch amputated and give us some functional nudity
instead of messages written with the smoke of your double-decker.
No-one at all would have their heart crushed by a postcard-only friend,
as life is just too fab, the together too creepy, the muddle too great, and the
crowd too scared. Oh by the way, 079 87654321 is not my number actually.
And out of shame for all that this implies an uninhabited isle with a single
coconut-bearing palm-tree in the middle is where I want to be left behind.
Including stubbly beard. And in torn clothes. While sitting in white sand
I then have time to let a meditation steam upward from my pate, one
to topple the first-person singular’s reign of terror, so from that moment on
only virtuously polished thoughts well up from me that form
a magnificent bouquet together. Pfff. I contemplate the events
in the subplot and conclude: I want a search engine to search for me.