Geewhiz and goshy willickers. What the fuck? Then no call? ¿Que pasa alli? Argg. Man, if you can't stew the stir, then don't turn on the gas, cripesolmighty! Fuckin' I donno. What else is their to say? Nice to look at up close, but, she avoided the Svengali bit, wouldn't fall prey to that ol' pigeon trick. Someday, we won't meet again. And it will shurely lack memory.
Tables, row upon row,
set with tidings for the eve,
A generous pie of crow,
for one the cook can't deceive;
Once and for ever the guests come,
slowly chairs begin to wail,
the wood loses itself in roaring hum,
and the sun falls in the dale.
As if it were something, it is written little more than nothing. Who's on that?
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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