Outside my bedroom window the tree begs for leaves and twig-foolery. Little wee nascent buds budding on the branches, such valiant little cunts.
I wish I wish I wish indeed, that I could fall willy-nilly to sleep. Perhaps a tincture of wild-root bitters and a slam-back of Neo-Citrine (minerals a brownish yellow semiprecious stone that is a variety of quartz. Use: gems). Fuck it, no time like the present, no time indeed. A slanting rain, sheaves of watery wheat. When I was a boy full of vim and vinegar a rainy day was a blessing. Now they are a cursed blaspheme.
The sky today was so blue I almost mistook it for the ocean. I awoke from sleep, head topsy-turvy with thoughts, as with most mornings the night’s rest was a restless one, when I sleep I think, and when I think I sleep the sleep of the restlessly thinking, an ataman with his head on fire, one thought after the other until the bottleneck jams up the who shebang, a cobbler’s bench of thought thoughts thought while asleep, restless thinking. Is this what my thinking-life has come to, a thought-jam of tinker’s thoughts thought without rhyme or reason, a cobbler’s bench of worn out soles and missing heels? Dare I say it again (for the millionth time) philosophy has been the ruin of my life, my thinking-life, my cobbler-tinker’s worn at the heel life.
I wish I wish I wish indeed, that I could fall willy-nilly to sleep. Perhaps a tincture of wild-root bitters and a slam-back of Neo-Citrine (minerals a brownish yellow semiprecious stone that is a variety of quartz. Use: gems). Fuck it, no time like the present, no time indeed. A slanting rain, sheaves of watery wheat. When I was a boy full of vim and vinegar a rainy day was a blessing. Now they are a cursed blaspheme.
The sky today was so blue I almost mistook it for the ocean. I awoke from sleep, head topsy-turvy with thoughts, as with most mornings the night’s rest was a restless one, when I sleep I think, and when I think I sleep the sleep of the restlessly thinking, an ataman with his head on fire, one thought after the other until the bottleneck jams up the who shebang, a cobbler’s bench of thought thoughts thought while asleep, restless thinking. Is this what my thinking-life has come to, a thought-jam of tinker’s thoughts thought without rhyme or reason, a cobbler’s bench of worn out soles and missing heels? Dare I say it again (for the millionth time) philosophy has been the ruin of my life, my thinking-life, my cobbler-tinker’s worn at the heel life.
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