# 9

I've been in a writing rut lately. Possible explanations include (though are not exclusively isolated to):

A) This morning I mistook a bowl of semen for a bowl of milk. Those golden flakes of corn sure did taste fucken pasty, though I'm blaming the microwave and its role in the whole mess. P.S. I'm ecstatic on account of having consumed more than the required daily allowance of protein. And it isn't even 2:00 pm yet.

B) I forgot to inform the seamstress about making allowances for random acts of expansion within the confines of my newest pair of made-to-measure pants. What effect will this have in Tokyo, London and New York? More importantly, which vinegar goes best with fish?

C) My phalanges care deeply for their well being, which doesn't include prolonged exposure to the ungodly chill thwarting all manner of movement at my preferred place of employ.

D) I write shit that even I don't understand, like: To wallow is to putrefy if only for Quasimodo's hash beyond the banks of the prophet.

E) What else is there to say?

F) Dreams, which not so long ago bombarded me with inspiration, have recessed to forgotten episodes within my subconscious; a place in time where I am not king of my domain, unlike Uzbekistan.

G) The world is a reanimated corpse which has risen from the grave. Its present whereabouts are unknown, though it most likely has a hairy bush like Eurovision Song Contest entrants.

H) Too much time and not enough high-end sake does a disgruntled me over the course of the weekend make.

I) The ground on which I walk on is probably not made of custard. What good can come of anything if the ground beneath you isn't made of custard?

J) I pose questions that require no answer to imaginary people and imaginary Druids. Aside: The French made a movie about Asterix & Obelix. I love Asterix & Obelix but a movie about them in French without English subtitles is as useful as a one-eyed toenail.

K) The Communists and Capitalists are still spooning in bed; oblivious to the need for someone to pull their oversexed bodies from under the good quilt. I have what appears to be an endless supply of bowls of milk which should get the job done if anyone else is keen to document the experience.

L) I saw three-quarters of Ghost Dog last night and wondered what would have happened if Trantino hadn't sold his soul to the highest bidder all those years ago. Viva la katana and corn roles. And a script whose credo 'less is more' deploys waves of pleasure to anyone who stumbles upon it.

M) Time never equates to money except when you're illiterate and can't think of a better excuse to leave. I'm leaving, I'm leaving but I know not when nor when nor why nor why.

N) I find myself repeating what I say and do and write and poo.

O) I find myself repeating what I say and poo and write and do. Even then, it doesn't feel right.

P) Illiteracy is of no concern if you live in a country whose name begins with the letter 8.

Q) I've resorted to writing a list; a sure sign that a leak has sprung in those creative juices I've called my own for close to a long time. Fuck, man. I'm writing a god-damned list! That's like excusing my brain for existing and functioning as brain ought to and instead placing a walking frame around it and saying: 'Off you go, Sonny. Do your best but keep it within the scope of your own ability. We wouldn't want you to over exert yourself, would we?' What a cockhead.

R) Everyone else is so why shouldn't I?

S) There is a god. He loves us all so much. These are not my words. One stroke at a time, sweet Jesus. One stroke at a time, sweet lord. These are not my words either. My plug-in baby crucifies my enemies. These are not my words either but if I had a guitar I would have wanted them to be my words.

T) I can't remember what comes after T. Is it cookies and belching? Maybe it's staring vacantly into a monitor and waiting for your head to be ransacked again.

U) The last time I had a blast of inspiration my feet took on a yellow tinge.

V) The hills aren't alive with the sound of music a.k.a. The hills ain't alive with no sound of jive, Honky.

W) Wiiiiiiiiiiiiilmaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

X) I used the word exactly inappropriately fifteen times today. I exactly can't be arsed when to stop now that it's officially been counted, documented and bettered.

Y) My thought, not yours.

Z) Zed's dead, baby. Zed's dead.