Thursday, May 06, 2004

More scribbles . . . .

Now I know why time doesn't progress properly in my presence - my heart is a black hole.

Screw coffee spoons - I have measured out my life in splenda packets

I guess you can be too rich or too thin. A 55lb anorexic would spend her lottery jackpot on hospital bills.

Last night, I dreamed I worked at hooters and did so well there that I got promoted to stripper at a swinging nightclub. After a while, even that was beyond my talent, so I struck it rich as a porn legend. When I woke up, I was almost disappointed. To tell the truth, I'd rather be morally bankrupt than broke.

Would you call it poetry
If I put my prose
Into disjointed lines of dubious significance?
That's what I thought;
You once again
Give too much credit,
Put faith in my artistic liscence,
And let me lead you
Anywhere.
Was I supposed spin my feelings?
Was I supposed to show you Black Night and Winter Morning?
Did you expect some kind of spiritual shifting
From a mendicant like me?
That's what I thought;
You're still reading,
Looking for the point.
And the crux of it -
Can you call something a pointless excercise
If it purposefully asserts
Its lack of point?

God i'm tired and sore.

shiny objects