Every November, it starts all over,
very much just like the year before last,
each time I hunger to prove myself real,
real as a writer, not some damned poet,
yesterday, I made up my mind to stop.
No, I can't say that in all honesty,
only because this...thing, this addiction
ventures (like vultures) on madness...and flesh,
every November, I lock myself up,
maybe I just hide away in the dark,
behind a solid oak or walnut door,
each time more hungry than the last to thrive,
really achieve some...thing, like a novel.
If it sounds as if I am locked away
to just masturbate for thirty days straight...
Set your mind at ease, the rest of the year
takes up all my time to ejaculate,
all that energy pent up all year long,
really, just to write some Goddamn novel,
takes all sorts of folks to imagine this
sort of thing, this month of writing is good.
Ask me what is good, what is beautiful,
last of all, ask me what is true, or truth,
likely answers will all be evasive.
Of course, I studied philosophy, but
very early on, I found those people
egotistical, avaricious brats,
royal brats who like to argue in public.
No comments:
Post a Comment