0917-42

"Hey, man, take the heat for me, this time," said the heart to the liver.

Patchwork people, patchwork lives, living in a jar. Sewn-on buttons for our eyes, with stitches on our scars. With someone's ear, and something's heart, we limp along the floor. Stuffing leaking from our arms, we're never quite restored. We're the rat king, crawling blind, our tails are woven in. Where they end, I cannot find, nor where I begin.

Callousness contradicts, actions beg to differ. Proclivity for punishment, shows lies begin to wither.

Took my plaques and medals off the wall today - shiny trinkets, gifts and hoarded wealth. I tore the fuckers off the wall today, and shoved them with the fiction on the shelf.

We were going to raise rabbits and live off the 'fatta the land. I didn't mean to kill it, George, but I've such big clumsy hands.

Sometimes, rather, often I feel the urge to write; though I don't have the words, even ideas, just feelings that cannot be contained without the release of ink on paper. I long for the roll of my ballpoint. Like a lovesick youth, or waiting widow, longs for the touch of another I long for the smooth caressing that, to me, is release, is satisfaction of primal urges tamed and my pain and anger spilled before me.