S.A.D., the blues, cabin fever, increasing close contact with other “bug ridden bags of flesh”, sickness, melancholia, wistfulness, a 4-5 month nature induced prison sentence, beds that want to be stayed in and loathed all the same ( it’s warm embrace like being held by Edgar Allen Poe’s Laudanum riddled nightmarish mind ), endless seeming 7 pm’s when it’s actually only 4.
Many questions throughout growing up to the parental figures as to why I had to be born in my ever calling home of Southern Cali, only to be yanked to this sad state of affairs I call Mizzeri!
Well, that’s my horse-shit moan of an excuse I called poetry…
Buncha finger snapping, coffee shop hanging Beatnik fags!
The only poet I’ve ever read that I thought had a modicum of taste, because of his seeming utter dislike for taste in the first damned place was E.E. Cummings!!! Wunderbar! Or some shit…
Maybe the other knuckle-heads on this site can pound some deep shit out, as a challenge! Yeah! That’s it c’mon Chief, Darth, Rev! Give us your best Kahil Gabraun
Have fun kids