No more tonight.

Opened a new page. Let’s see what have we got tonight. A packet o biscuits and no dog to feed. A water bottle half empty. A pair of lungs half collapsed. Let’s introduce ourselves gently to the matters of death and life beyond dying. Let’s open our legs and bare our backs to the harsh hunter of this night. It has rained tonight. Nobody drowned. I got wet a little but that’s all. That was my little adventure. And then I returned home. I am weak and loathsome and mad. Let’s pop another vitamin pill and unscrew our limbs. Let’s lie down anywhere and stop breathing. Poems of Bukowski. Poems of Carlos Williams. Songs of Cohen. Stories of Raymond Carver. I read all that in two days. Imagine the state of my mind. I can vomit all day and night and afternoon and evening and not develop a slight headache. Can you believe that, you tongueless frog? Can you? You cancerous froth? Soon I will be gone, and later I will be back. What a feat. What an astounding feat. Pandemonium everywhere. Somebody needs oxygen, Somebody needs a syringe. Somebody needs a bed. Somebody needs a fucking life. GODDAMNIT!

How long before God stops wiping his ass and gets down here. He’s been wiping his ass for so long. He’s been on it since the first big bang. Oh yes, there have been several big bangs. And he emerged like a giant cock from the singularity and then he grew an ass on himself and he started wiping it. He does not care. He is smuggling coke to reckless Harlem. He is supplying women to the damp brothels of Kolkata. He is shaving the heads of his fairies and pushing them in fire. He is the greatest con artist but his tricks are being exposed and they are failing day by day. I myself would have stuffed him in some jute sack and submerged him at the bottom of the Pacific. But I fail to find him. He has run away, again, like a two-faced rat. Let’s forget him and return to my miserable life.

It could have rained a little more tonight. I have been waiting for rain since long. I would love to think about something else, but I fail. I fail repeatedly. I fail like no one else. The sweet voice of mild rain is filling my brain, shutting down my eyes, sending my nose into a frenzy. I better go now. I better go and lock myself in a suitcase. I better cut off my tongue and smash my eyes with some rock. I better go now. I better not write another word. I better not.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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