part of me hopes to have a massive coronary while banging on the keys of the fucking 1969 smith corona typewriter i just had to have as another insipid poem is left to rot in the aether to be misunderstood in decades

my disposition spurred by the bitter taste of anise in my soul that drips down yellowed teeth that are cracked and broken from picking the wrong fight or the wrong side or whatever idiotic thing i chose to believe that day

scribbling tales of horror while trying to convince myself i only write horror because if i wrote what was in my soul it would be ignored like the poetry i spew with disdain at the emptiness with out as reflected from within

maybe i am just tired of always being just far enough behind that catching up is a myth there are no lazy rabbits that sleep as the tortoise over takes them only half frozen snakes that strike the ones dumb enough to save them

if wishes were fishes we would all gleefully drown each other for sport as the dark ones watch from the corners in clouds of brimstone and disappointment that the endings were brought on without a single bargain struck

raise a glass to spitting into luck’s eye or to pissing into a fan then cursing the fates for soaking our pants as each and every other pathetic moron does the same unwilling to take the time to explore other possibilities at all