Honest to god, I cannot focus on anything today. Shutter speed, I hardly know, her nimble nail cracked finger forgot to set; and in writing to you, I must fess, I feel as safely exposed as my wanton but not so very ambling darling dandelion. Darling as the dear nymphet is so easy to please – never mind my bed of pale fire, dear worm, you had me at Soufflé.
But why lionize the tooth fairy, you ask? Truth be fairly told, apart from the hinted irony, at which you might speedily shudder for the mess and flashy fuss I have made over it, I am, though willing, unable to pinpoint anything else because, honest to god, I cannot focus on anything today.
posted by Ash at 5:06 PM
4 Comments:
err,
you write "i can't focus" so artfully.
wow =)
There is not as much art as artifice in the post.
Hmmm... Sat down to parrot your post, but emerged with something else... Normally I would erase this bogus hocus pocus, but, honestly, i can't focus.
Interruption
Animal crackers in my soup and the scent of a woman... what a dream. And a disappointment - I've come awake into the breathing world before my time - I was scarsely half way there. Now, craving release, and yet burdened with duty, I open my eyes wide. Shut. Try it again, I must.
Everything in the room is barely illuminated by the paultry, lugubrious light that still manages to filter into the house through the heavy curtains. A shocking affluence of luxuriously dusty spiderwebs and dry fly husks around the windows is kept mercifully out of sight by the thick waterstained fabric, now aglow with the sunlight that hits the other side. Like a clockwork, the fiery orange radiance assures me that it must be high noon outside. There is nothing important beyond the windows to see, not even an uninspired vista.
Pieces of dusty, mismatched furniture - hand-me-downs from friends who have moved on and curbside leavings of strangers whos motives I can only guess at rise above the mounds of discarded clothing, like tombstones. In the background, a purple wall is ruptured by the festering wound of a dilapidated fireplace, trimmed in putrid green.
Fuck it. Closing my eyes, I wait for what dreams may come...
superego - It is hilarious. Maybe next time you can work in 'Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo'
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