A prickly-pear restless sleep; how best to describe missed-consciousness. Sleeping has become a problem: the carousel of sleep. Either I lay awake scolded with thought or sleep like a log (particle-board, press-board, stolen shims and wainscoting). The cursed ploughman, where be he, silly so-and-so? Just this moment, perhaps a second ago, I looked at the wall of infamy: Beckett, Joyce, Nietzsche, Freud and Kafka, my comfort and bane. A life without literature is a mistake, a half-life, a missed-life, a life lived in abstentia.
I am smoking three-week-old Djarum cigarillos. They (these black sticks) taste like dried fen, Indonesian spore and dung. The scarab beetle digs long deep winding trenches into the sides of fen-rolls, such mischievous brig-a-bract. Enjoy a cool refreshing smoke; Sweet Caps are a man’s man smoke. Enjoy a bellows-full, easy on the throat and smooth as a calf’s tongue. It is 10:57 pm and still no sight or hither of the ploughman. Such incompetence should be scolded and laid bare. This morning’s analysis was worthy of a Freudian cigar, cocksfoot and phallic impropriety. Time for bed, abed I go.
I am smoking three-week-old Djarum cigarillos. They (these black sticks) taste like dried fen, Indonesian spore and dung. The scarab beetle digs long deep winding trenches into the sides of fen-rolls, such mischievous brig-a-bract. Enjoy a cool refreshing smoke; Sweet Caps are a man’s man smoke. Enjoy a bellows-full, easy on the throat and smooth as a calf’s tongue. It is 10:57 pm and still no sight or hither of the ploughman. Such incompetence should be scolded and laid bare. This morning’s analysis was worthy of a Freudian cigar, cocksfoot and phallic impropriety. Time for bed, abed I go.
1 comment:
oh, you're where the cigarillos got in my head from.
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