(February 28/08)
My radio-dial is set to static, a trumpeting ass so it is. Today I am one day older than yesterday, two days younger than Saturday. I am in my fifties, more or less. I am in my druthers, less than more. I picked up a copy of The Voyage That Never Ends, a compilation of Malcolm Lowry’s non-volcanic prose and poetry, a mishmash of this and that, that and this, a veritable slag of this that and the other that and this. I am smoking a cigarette, a tailor-made Davidoff Classic, filter-tipped medium-mild and quite savory. (Indeed savory indeed). I made a fugal-horn of my ass, in keeping with my protean Dantean mien.
A blue azure blue cobalt sky, an ocean of blue, blue sky. Today I am to have my yearly physical, proctored by my doctor, doctor. Blood-letting and urine-collecting, bunghole-proctoring and tongue-depressing, all the rudiments of a physiological checkup up.
My radio-dial is set to static, a trumpeting ass so it is. Today I am one day older than yesterday, two days younger than Saturday. I am in my fifties, more or less. I am in my druthers, less than more. I picked up a copy of The Voyage That Never Ends, a compilation of Malcolm Lowry’s non-volcanic prose and poetry, a mishmash of this and that, that and this, a veritable slag of this that and the other that and this. I am smoking a cigarette, a tailor-made Davidoff Classic, filter-tipped medium-mild and quite savory. (Indeed savory indeed). I made a fugal-horn of my ass, in keeping with my protean Dantean mien.
A blue azure blue cobalt sky, an ocean of blue, blue sky. Today I am to have my yearly physical, proctored by my doctor, doctor. Blood-letting and urine-collecting, bunghole-proctoring and tongue-depressing, all the rudiments of a physiological checkup up.
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