S4
I was starting some new phase, when my daughter tapped me on the knee. I know she's happy doing her thing, watching the box, and phasing out, into "princessland", sucking on her Fruit-Shoot, eating cotton candy, from a bucket, I'd just bought her.
Hugh belts out "Strange little girl, where are you going?" and I realise my new googlepad slave is bringing this Gonzolecture into a new phase.
Hard-boiled, part-broiled, then words were cooking in my skull. "Ain't nothing it to it, just here," Hugh added.
I remembered Kerouac, toilet roll novel under his arm, with publisher after publisher, pointing at the door, murmuring "come back, when you've earned it, son."
I'd spent life, living someone elese's dream. It was time to let the hate ether have its way. Stop adding to my vibe, my dear, I'm doing this, on my own.
The crappy diction, of the fiction, made the dead-tapping style of the cold keys, make the beezes of ambition, and need for recognition, brew the riches, out into his pocket. It was time.
"Golden brown," Hugh continued, "texture like sun." I had to release this pain.
No comments:
Post a Comment