Utterly Bearable

i may have made a fool of myself, today.

we'll see.

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a tired attire attracting attractive attacks.
alliteration, thou art no stranger to me.

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oi oi

Pheasant Pleasantries

today i smell 'kinda' bad. my neck hurts, despite two massages. my back hurts, like an old man's back would hurt after a long day of...i don't know...farm work? horseshoes? i am not an old man, not yet anyways. although i do turn twenty-two in September. twenty-two is an old age. i do not feel like a twenty-two year old man. then again, i still have a month. last week, i sat on my front porch and yelled at kids to get off my lawn. that's an old man thing to say. it's also a lie.

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some things have been on my mind:

1. to see, again.
2. wonder?
3. miss
4. to begin
5. excite
6. want, now please.

that is all.
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Caterwaully Francis

Wolf sang me a song. 'Barnacle Bill the Sailor Man' was the title. Wolf gently wove a musical tale of a beautiful maiden who was seduced, and ultimately knocked up by a wandering man of the sea. i could smell the ocean air and taste the brine in his words. buried deep within slurring vowels and swaggering demeanour lay a tender voice, fertile with vibratto. Wolf then took his Sierra-Mist-in-a-bag and howled into the night.

'The Werewolf of Trafford'. that's what they called him.

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Turd Burger.

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