All men are enemies. All animals are comrades.

I wrote a book of poetry and had it bound in leather.

It’s really fucking good and you’ll never get to read it. This is some e.e. cummings (lower case for all my hard core cum fans) level linguistic mastery. It’s so good that if Bukowski read just one prose he would have stopped drinking, gone through withdrawals, attended AA, lived a sober life, opened a brick-a-brack shop, and then destroyed it all in a downward spiral of drunken rage. My poetry would make Christine Friar nod appreciatively…but she won’t. I’m just too humble to let anyone else read it. I couldn’t handle the fame, the Pulitzer, the Nobel Prize, all that attention. It just sounds like too much for me. 

  1. abigailpaige said: dope
  2. bringtheruckuss posted this