Yeah, one word.
I changed one word in my There's nothing poem at the weekend. It's better now.
'Yippee!'
Yeah.
It makes me think though ... how much work needs to be put into these poems? It's exhausting, man.
'Stay hard!'
The good news is ... most poems don't need the work that There's nothing needed BECAUSE it's a special poem, you dig?
It's still not perfect. Nothing is perfect. However, it's really great.
'Yippee!'
It would be a crime not to finish such a poem properly. But now ... it is finished, I'm praying, oh yes.
And my fresh start ... ha, ha, ha!
'Ha!'
Maybe after Christmas.
This blog won't be going on much longer, anyway. I didn't join the Owlman this year, but I will next year.
'Great!'
Oh, who cares about fresh starts?!
'No one!'
I've written the whole of this blog without a fresh start, all my songs, my nine poems.
Fresh starts? Who cares?!
'No one!'
No one.
Francis Bacon didn't have any fresh starts. He painted in the mornings, and then he got drunk for the rest of the day, and gambled. That went on for about forty or fifty years. Of course, I would get migraines doing that.
'Never mind.'
Never ever mind, eh?
It's just ...
Listen!
There's nothing makes me feel better about life because I have conquered a big piece of reality with it.
I won't say which piece. People will find out though.
So, it's a nice feeling, yes. To hell with chaos! The chaos can't take this feeling from me.
And it's not just a feeling. It's knowledge. I know what this poem is, you dig?
'Nice one!'
Yes, it's a nice one.
Laters.
'Bye!'
ENDS
ENDS
ENDS
Oh, if I ever blank There's nothing out like this ------ -------, it will mean I've entered it in a competition. / I have no plans at the moment.
