Some people have little or no conception.
They are too removed from the physicality of the knife going in. The twist or not, if one is lucky; the bottle flailing stage left, the fragment of glass in the corner of one eye. They have no experience of the lust to damage; maim; injure with blade. Stone.
Such creatures, they feed and exist in a pretty cul-de-sac built on crutches. Stumps. At a distance.
Where were you when they hammered in the nail ? Where were you when Lazarus rose to sit idle and brain dead in the sun ?
Sunday painters. Dismantlers of tertiary colour tied up in a bow. I wish I had your lukewarm appreciation for zip, tat. The nothingness of bilge and cackle.
As it is. I sit and bang at the keys with one finger.
I am bitter as a paper bag of limes. Lemons. Rind and pulp, dyspeptic acid. Carapuces and crustaceans washed out on a single white sheet.
I do not believe I appreciate the taste of you. I don\’t think I\’m familiar with the smell of you at all.
It takes much to penetrate my hard of hearing. It takes plenty to buckle down and man the quiet way in.
I believe in salt, seed, weed. The labour to spoil.
That is my working. That is my crease. That is my reason to break into a run or rapture.
You had better be quick to explain your myopia.