Uninspired talk of the weather
A group of owls is called a parliament.
A Penny whistle has six finger holes.
A starfish can turn its self inside out.
Lobsters have blue blood.
Everybody talks about the weather. How are you doing?
How have you been? Big fake smile and a handshake.
Tonight the moon is low and crimson like in a horror novel.
But then the stars fade and it is time for coffee and more
fake smiles and handshakes.
Uninspired, tired and I can't wait for something to go wrong.
Where is the hardship that I need in order to pump out the
mental bilge that I like to think of as creativity?
I should pick up a bi-polar nympho or a nasty drug habit.
Maybe fuck a good friends girlfriend and/or sister or
pick a fight with a cop.
Play with fire...Guns...toxic chemicals...
Walk alone in a nasty part of town wearing nice clothes
and asking for directions.
Strip down, cover myself in mud and blood and
run screaming down the street.
Nope, not me. I just sit here in my air conditioned nightmare
wearing a bathrobe and scratching mosquito bites.
