She took her own hand and showed it a few brand new and desirably exploratory places – swore that she would not ever again attempt to compete with it anymore, in continuing to do to it what other times had done to it before. This feeling, this sentimental and completely unbiased opinion – see, perfectly imperfect opinions, albeit succinctly steady were her favourite living thing, wherein a complicit state of sweet saccharine forgiveness remained her non-judgemental feel for unattached matrimony. This is not a tale of handheld masturbation, by the way. Just a motherfucking earpiece created from angst and some kind of illiterate agony. Wherein these sentences hold no such scope of configured structure let alone some kind of visual emotion but for a simple single signalling need to bring a physical sense of sincere and giving theatricality into play. Incomparable – I land this, I land everything. And the resolute and wrought-iron rest can resolve to devil-may-care take care of itself – burnt and betrayed by the lightness of being entirely earnest with these highly unapproachable led to being specifically dysfunctional words. Building it back together and for one first time, within the shudder and scream of a sleeping memory. That just will not ever wake the fuck up. Like a million thousand fists to the throat about to explode. A million thousand poets who don’t even know it. it is the journalists, the musicians, the nervously sought-out graphic designers that are the faces which can carry real words, not nearly even nearly enough of the ‘real’ poets in their fancy lands far far away but for their falsified need to seem extracurricular and decidedly high and all mighty. How’s about we attempt to try and analyse for ourselves what they fail to attempt to try and analyse for themselves? That ain’t no such secret to spill. Utter sacrosanct, plagiarised and disdained garbage and wrongfully red-ribboned with discriminatory bindings of contrived and alarming gusto. A laureate is another way of secretively telling the people of that nation that they are desperately illiterate. If this person, this miserable c*nt can win it, then what the fuck have you people being doing!!? Did you ever speak to a self-proclaimed poet and witness their smile, oh, only if it could so “radiantly suggestively light up a million diving stars near the eye of the sky.” Fuck right the way off, please. Live in the real world. With the real world. They will not hear it though, because to fail as a writer let alone as a plagiarised poet, and they are all of them that way, is to fall twice as hard as anything else in this self-proclaiming world. If only you were only ever that way inclined, of course. Only, of course, you’re not and that makes perfect sense. Not imperfectly perfect sense, not even perfectly imperfect sense. Just fucking absolute unparalleled perfect… sense. Let us do the math for a moment, ninety-nine percent of truly famous literary people choked themselves do death… ninety-nine percent of people that we are dreaming to be. Where exactly is the romance in that?! “Oh, yes, indeed, but to get to watch it from a distance… to watch what all of the deliria was for.” To land a simple sentence, my friends. The one single simple sentence that has the other fuckers ripping at their teeth, up all of the candlelit night – lose the candles, they do nothing but make neighbours think even harder, not laureate harder… but harder than that!! – wondering if they could ever really forgive you. No friends for poets, you’re absolutely running in the right direction and it feels… mysteriously, deceptively clear. Albeit otherworldly balanced insane. You need that little smidgen of absolute animosity. The divided opinion, the laughing few (too many), the ones that are correct in their manner of approaching it all. Wondering why they think any more of your actions than anyone else’s. Probably because, truth be told, it is in you, just it won’t seem to walk in any kind of a straight and perpendicular direction for itself. Huh!!!!? When they come to despise the world that they do truly love – there is your fucking poet. Warts ‘n’ all – seriously underdeveloped but irreversibly on it, about to break the mould. And when they do, of course, it won’t be enough! How on earth could it ever be? They have waded their way through a Grand Canyon of at least a billion words, they are left wondering what the fuck was it about that one that did something, what about that sentence, this sentence!? Doesn’t matter a shit if you hear their echo. See – motherfucking bend towards poetry. Ugh! Truth is, most people have either already written or spoken the greatest sentence constructed ever. Bare-faced run-of-the-mill luck. When was writing ever about imagination, how? Word, letters, put that shape there, the other shape – oooh, ugly!! – here. They’ll love the bullshit of it all. I certainly won’t but they should have to. Writing depends entirely upon the same people who have been laughing, the same ones who slowly come to your applause, finally, irredeemably finding themselves sitting with something that you have somehow created. Honestly, even then a lot of it will be to do with the fact that the handsome cover is nice to be seen with by a pretty girl. Thanks for that, sweet insistent overeager, underpaid graphic designers, yours not mine and try to say it any other way, I swear I’ll swing for your head. Not how I’d see it, or want it, but all I ever do in a bookstore, grab a handsome book and think, how the fuck on earth did I come to be in love with this thing, carry the will and want and ridiculous level of persistence to do this thing, a thing I don’t even understand but for the fact that I am constantly on it. Constantly, constantly… constantly again. They all find their voices, they hope. That is it, I think I have already found mine just a few thousand times over. Like the fecking writer who has too many ideas, can only never stay with one sentence and it’s sweet melody – who even says that? Maybe me, if I’d let myself stay with that particular style but, alas, no. They did not expect it; you did, Christ how you did, and like no-one has ever anticipated something before. My book, preferably, would be everything I have ever written, and I know that that puts me in the odd, odd and entirely messy, exceptionally egotistical, oft than not romanticised category of the, dare I say it, let alone be bold enough to compare myself with it, Jack Kerouac’s of the world. He wrote one night, and wrote and wrote until somehow, exactly how he might have wanted it, ended up pleasing a large part of the literary world, also the same large part that look at others for their very own reasoning. Comfort in numbers. Right. That is fine in its own romantic way, of course. But romance I can no longer handle for myself. Romance has to be for the weak. Too reliant upon a marketer’s dream. And a marketer’s dream, a great marketer’s dream, should really be a writer’s dream, a great writer’s dream, right? Nope, not one bit. I think there is so many shit scared writers of real reckoning out there ruled against their will by the, well, wrought-iron rules of writing that it freaks them out to be themselves till they get there. But, they do wish to get there at the same time. Or maybe that is why the ones who have no real interest in ‘getting there’ and much just prefer to read their own work are maybe the ones who deserve a little more credit, if for one thing then let it be their ability to not be too crazy about it all. I have no doubt Joyce was talented, not extremely so though, because if he was extremely anything when it came to words then he would have been able to turn his style to something of the slower paced chick-lit variety, the mass appeal, the John Grisham books of the world even. The goddamn – and I don’t mean to be unfair, but I will – books that run on properly balanced minds. Preferably there would be no ‘writers’, no nothing, no brackets to curtail anything. Jesus, I have just painfully realised that this will need editing now. This long drive back over drivel of black upon white. When you would much rather gouge your eyes out with the pen that you hold in your hand than to do that… that is when you know. Oh fuck, you’re in it till they come in their weird and wonderful droves, the idiots from American films, the literary wannabe’s, the readers who make you shudder to even think about them holding your damn book. All of this? For them!! What book though, and what damn is there even to be given!? Oh, but for the radiantly suggestively light that lights up a million diving stars near the eye of the sky. Paaaah!!! How on earth did this all begin with a ‘tale’ about a girl and her fingers? That was all rhyme, all absolute desire at landing a line, but the truth is, I have to see the rhyme; if I don’t see the rhyme in a line – sheesh!! – I would quite possibly end up writing a sentence like this: John and Mary are sitting at a bus and one of them is wondering, where to go from here. Wishfully wondering if only it weren’t for their intertwined fingers…… Fuck, with the fingers again. See, rhyme, and what does rhyme only ever do but it leaves you sending yourself on a pathway towards the grandiose manner of writing, or scribbles. Why I call it scribbles is because, put simply and unashamedly, I get to let myself off the hook and remind me who I am and am not. A poet, fuck no! A writer, maybe, in one small sense of madness, a so far unsuccessful sense, the literary sense, and that is not safe. Safer less when you have no visual and even believe people to be ripping the piss when they say that they see it all. If they do see it all, many people from what I’ve frustratingly heard, then my God, my sentences must bring a headache from work in their nine-to-five instance to them longingly searching for a stronger packet of pain relief. “Nope, that sure as shit ain’t gonna be nearly near enough. I’m just at the part where I don’t even know where he ends and the writing starts. Again. Do you think he is alright though, Mary?” said John (Oh, the angst of the famously fucking irritating ‘he said’ ‘she said’). “Seriously! I dunno, John, now give me your sweet fingers and let’s just watch the mundane telly and do the things that he wishes he could without running to the nearest part of the hope of an award-winning poem, or poems, held for hostage inside of his head. Do you think he has ever been relaxed, though? I think unfairly so. Soon as the seen-to-be simple things build mountains of their own while the harder parts appear singularly simple to him.”
And they do despise it, and they sure do love it. Like you could not imagine like they wished that they could.
And do I understand why wishful writers do go mad from trying to land a style that must, must, must be loved? Ask a silly question get the obvious answer. One million percent of it. Everything counts itself in when you’re in love with… not words but… a mind minus OCD taking it all away, maybe!!!!?
Colouring in the uproarious edges that the real me cannot even wish to reach. The funny fact is though, that when the OCD turns itself almost all of the way off, that is when I don’t write silly upside down poems but rather actually quite exciting, descriptive and interesting articles. Articles that have kindly been called worthy of winning an award. Don’t set me up with that goddamn thing, please. That part is supposed to be the real me, sure don’t ya know it. Articles though. Not even poems at all, not messed up and agonised for their single worth each one of them… So, yeah, fair ask, but where do I start and where does the story begin.

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