I would ambush thee at waking would I yes I would, but first I’d have to pee and brush my teeth and do the thousand things my flesh is heir to or oh the airs it has. Inherent in this: Insecurity in the member can’t remember where it timbered last, a joke you know. A joke. Ajoke ajoke ajoke most serious told and ill-intended there you go now getting sacred and profane to feign an insincerity so blasé ain’t it, ain’t it, ain’t I cool, removed and doable but no, unnoticed goes the motion. Ha! A pun. I’ve done it. Not much lately everywhen or ever, neverafter it has seemed.
Can it be that this can make a candle’s worth unworthy as I am of words I used to have I think the play’s the thing at fancy and imagination, but expenditures of heart and wax back-breaking as in half and half a mind to be deleted here thereby delivered from the agon of a hope of effort ever ever coming to fruition in fulfillment of a destiny destructed under influential spirits.
Swift, the retribution and a tribute to this instrument of torture that I am myself. I tribute it. I tribute it. I am a river of this tribute. I’ll retribute then and then retire in the dark that’s barely lit with wasted wax; three wicks worth, scented, dwindling.
I wish that I could ramble senseless silly as I once did though sheerly for my own amusement, but the whiskey does not flow no mo so neither do my words get going. Go. So why do I come back to this that never even was, was much of nothing and a bunch of uninspired aspirations to an asininity not in me maybe. Maybe so.