I was off and now I am on again - so turns the wheel of my writings.
No attempt will be made at a coherent word play - I shall type as you hate and love - and damn the damnable - I undamn it. I consider how I consider things - how I see and feel the world around me and the world within. I consider the dust of majesty and shard the gleam in the homeless man's eye. Such gutter's of wealth spring into the fields of want; infinite so, breaking the clouds of granite...
It is but a dream I sell - a seaming thing - suffering the lust, burgeoned and bourne on the night's of the false lit day. No one can write what I write - for no man is me - and I DMP, will find my point - among the pointed prayers. The shit I sell; stinks in high regard of no guard, girding the fount of a dead man's dream - my dinner is on the table and the fork has the idea. The crescendo of innuendo is but a tapping tempo for the true troll's feast. Make that last sentence in your mind and meander long into pathways of dust become stream and torrent when the heavens fall.
Rolling a smoke...
Particles of thought - make or remake me into the small glory's of the wind swept day. Speak not of fail when you know 'the win' is the moment of any moment alive - speak not of win, speak of the this that is spoken. But mean it - mean all the small things as much as the great for it is within the sphere of this that the fullness of wisdom is inscribed.
Beer is good.