I’m just plain disappointed
Do not give me your shitty Game of Thrones
your puerile latest show of anything
the next youtube channel to break a million- thous-illion subscribers
the next door neighbour who’s competed on Britain’s-got-nothing-but-fat-sad-talentless-plebheads
personalityless-people who can’t pontificate the moment because their likes might go down in any given medium can suck their butt warts for all the thoughts I can muster.
Eight season of the walking dead! And still counting!
We live in this world
What the fuck is a chat show? A-too-very long dry and dull advertisement for a thing by a body who neither knows how to speak or wipe their arse as they vomit sugar down the viewer throats…
A Kardashian is a commodity!
Tuck your lips in chicks because you look vile, hilarious and ready to guzzle nothing but jizzoa!
Where is the shame, the embarrassment at getting drunk and fucking for drugs and the latest wayward attempt at attention from a fatherly figure who’s never been around!
At least a brunch date can be lied about, or a tattoo covered up.
Yet somehow your arse is peculiarly podgy and your lips are sore from watching jeremy Kyle and thinking of the precious airtime you could have, if only you could snag such a desultory relationship as theirs.
At dinner if you answer your phone and your cancerous moms not dying immediately, I wanna see myself through glass!
The world, you, in particular are not worth the activity of my leisure!
And I have a shit job where I do nothing but placate times sagging balls,
and little do I have to offer the average passerby, whether it be conversation or a display of any respectable talent but fuckedy-shit-me don’t I know it
Advice is pointless, experience has to be endured and only then might I perhaps listen to your gold-soot.
ah man, so many yets Britney Spears still a thing and the Gang bang theory gets a spin off off of the spin off!
So many bad things, objectively terrible comedians, books that only wilt the mind, self help guru’s who need only bullets through the spline, chef’s with a smile so fake a plasterer is called in for on sight repairs…
We can’t even eat the food. They talk about food but we can’t swallow it!
Dullards, mediocrity the lot of them.
Knighted for the absurd reason of a long existence and no public outcry at the delighted divulging of an honest opinion on whatever minority is in vogue within the teensy moment.
Hollow-planks of see-through plastic-sperm!
The collective consciousness is vicious for an ailing soul who cannot tolerate the mind humping and numbing affections of any crowd.
Global-group-think destroys the individual, left or right, likes or dislike it’s a torrent of abomination as
the human experience should never be one stretch of a vacuous advertisement for low-low hades-hell standards!
You stand before me, not a person but a walking theremin, a being capable of little more than parroting whatever’s beamed in front of you.
Please be most respectful when I say, get the hell away from me.
So do your hair differently, watch something nobody is talking about, go outside, get held up at knife point, eat sweets found on the floor, contemplate where your life has been and where it’s heading, listen, listen and listen a shit tonne more and more and more-
And only then might you be of interest to moi!
Letter to reasoning
I thought I did
but I don’t.
You get more out of it than I.
They run wild and free and take about a fourteen percent of my interest for a quarter second
You ride them but love them
I stay away and think of other things…
Nature to me, is letting things slide and feeling beauty in overgrowth.
The second it is tamed and named it’s just another unseemly human trafficked trait.
And my kind’ve liking turns into slight disgust at the revelation of your adoration of animal frivolity!
I cannot compete
nor do I hope to try…
A Brief Questionnaire I filled out whilst trying to give my book away for free
Tell us about yourself and how many books you have written?
I have written fifteen hundred novels and novelettes in my time. Precious prosody go wrist in sleight of hand with the poem that floods then ebbs and then fifty years fly on by…OH the furore of flights of fantasy I have seen! For I appear to be eternal you see. Do not quake no do not shiver, for I do not ask for cherished cashola just that you read my cherished works with the greats in mind, for I have met them all. Dostoevsky (hates cheese), my GOD! Knut Hamsun (Gotta love his bedtime stories) Alberto Moravia (what a whore) Charles Bukowski (he sure did not like me lingering around him), Louis Ferdinand Celine (after the first ten minutes, proved to be a real conversationalist) August Strindberg (slap me right in the kisser but didn’t spit on my brown brogues, sweet mercy), Yukio Mishima ( I tried to talk him out of it) Hermann Hesse (did not like me referring to him as ole fairy cheeks in the company of widows especially). -Follow the Feeling -Twenty-first mankind blues (my favourite) -The lovers (bonkers but new to literature) -The general pointlessness of being (Coming of age written unlike anybody else)
What is the name of your latest book and what inspired it?
I am in the process of finishing a novel about time. The fairytale, the myth, the man (working title). There are life’s ebbs and flows, part poetry, part prosody. Recurring motifs recycling themselves into new and intricate ways. It near enough sent me insane. Think Kobo Abe Kafka-esque dreams…
Do you have any unusual writing habits?
I am always attempting to quit. I’d rather live a different life where I could use my limited resources (the mind and my wilting knees) to be financially free. Work then retire. Alas I struggle with the minds compulsions. I am drawn back in and overcome with the knowledge that this is pretty much the only thing I can do. I am nothing else ( I have made a really bad movie) I love travelling across Europe and walking up mountains, waiting for my rapid heart beat to revive then fall on down life’s scenic views… but all I really wanna do is sit down, drink copious amounts of coffee, dig right into the heart and spread those Icarus wings towards the red setting sun.
What authors, or books have influenced you?
All the dead ones: Knut Hamsun — Pan, mysteries, Alberto Moravia- Boredom and contempt Charles Bukowski — anything really. Louis Ferdinand Celine — Journey to the end of the night Herman Hesse, Yukio Mishima, Dostoevsky (hate spelling this legends name), Steve Tesich (Karoo is sublime), Strindberg and Baudelaire’s spirit lives on through me in a weird way. and probably a fuck tonne more!
What are you working on now?
After I had gone insane I quickly dashed off another novel I am yet to re-read that takes the piss out of all culture, all ways of life but none more harsher than he is on himself, (which rings true for all human beings). For me this is the kind of book I’d like to read from another. again, I am yet to read it back through…could be rather shite!
What is your best method or website when it comes to promoting your books?
I only wish I knew. I am poor. I crave readers more than money. so….yeah, wish I knew. If anybody finds any feel free to email me Ddavidcroot@gmail.com. I will pay you with my novels nobody reads.
Do you have any advice for new authors?
If you can do something else. do ittttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt! Self inflicted torture, mutilation of the dog-bollocks rotting soul takes its toll!
What is the best advice you have ever heard?
What are you reading now?
Japanese literature. Just finished Rashomon and seventeen other stories. Gonna learn about Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard maybe some Chinese literature.
What’s next for you as a writer?
multitudinous attempts at pushing back the day of reckoning upon oneself!
If you were going to be stranded on a desert island and allowed to take 3 or 4 books with you what books would you bring?
I’m afraid I would not bring a book or trois! I’d bring sexy lesbians! just so I could watch their show again and again and again. rejections already my hearts home but I’d enjoy their splendour!
D. David Croot’s books can be found on amazon under the name he keep’s on writing. D. David Croot. D. David Croot…D. David Croot D. David CrootD. David Croot…
A kinda life
If you could write what I have written, I could
have a real job or go fishing or take a real long bath.
Never do I type to express myself clearly or expel the demons,
i’m not like that, I get bored, this entertains me when everything else has lost its shading.
My fellow gladioli soul, if you did it for me, the same or the often-hoped better, in you
i’d have somebody to follow and then I’d go for a walk, chill and watch nothing, ready for the world to set and the world to rise…
I write what I want to see, synergetic images dancing before a charcoaled scar-ridden luxury cruiser,
leaping judicial paintings full of wrongs that can go undiscovered but never unappreciated.
Vast and plentiful lines that hold up hope and dissect interest slashing away at the bull-hackey mediocrity that plagues and has always infected life’s eternal blood…
I write because you do not think like I do.
Nobody seems too.
It’s a kinda life I guess.
Why you lie?
Pedophiles are fucked in the head!
If there ain’t a cure there needs to be a reward instead,
for revealing, “I’m fucked in a way that cannot be solved”
then house them away in world full of old.
Anyhow, on a side note, you pedophilic minds make more sense to me
especially when have the capacity to admit your mental insanity.
It’s the Keyboard-cancelling-social-justice-warriors lies I detest
below I believe I succinctly express,
“If you can admit you’re pathetic and fucked!
I truly believe this is a skill that should never be overlooked”
across a line
can’t be moved
around a track
with only bends
I’m fucking freedom in the bathtub
I’m dancing rabies through an evil moon
I’m lost in thought that cannot be intruded upon
I’m scandalising and corrupting every memory
I’m lying to the truth
I’m enabling the god in me
I’m dismissing the bones of what’s gone on previous
I’m decimating the ivory of space
I’m craving world war three!
I know the nuke can be my friend
And I seek only more!
Options, opinion varies
I’d converse a while with a racist, a murderer, a serial pederast, a womaniser a cult leader, a material monopolist, a man wanking into a can of heinz baked beanz
As long as they have other characteristics and do not bore me with inculcations of their singular vocationsWe’re all fucked in the head anyhow…
I don’t like people but I value and am intrigued by views that are not my own
Sometimes I wish I could have a serial killer best friend…
Let’s face it, we’re about four tinny-tin-tin steps sway from creating a show where this is viable anyhow…
And if they turn out to be vicious or unspeakably distasteful in other facets of their life,
i’m always allowed go home and never have to see them again.
The meme of my generation
The cat jumped over the fool and you laughed and laughed and laughed
Your minds are made of pudding and you laugh and laugh and laugh
What’s a joke anyway?
There’s no angel headed hipsters,
only bants and weed and everybody allowing everything but nobody really liking anybody
Everybody’s a winner…yet cannot get up and out of beddy-byes because they want to wear women’s clothes or just feel different.
Broken hearts every day, mismatched purses allow female urges to take precedent
The truth is never candid and trees snap at the cackle of a gaggle of youthful fuckers
God is dead and the deceased walk among us, they plague our tv sets, billboards and dictate water cooler etiquette.
Violent paintings are banned and somebody dying on the news fills you with grief and you know not why?
And you don’t search and search and never find what’s tucked beneath the creaking.
Talking is outlawed and only available to cowboys who know how to dodge silvery bullets and chants of, ‘we don’t like you very much’
Nobody knows anybody and a secret is only gossip fodder
Everybody’s hurting but nobody really acts or attempts to become
A change is a blemish upon the human stain
The mad to live are tucked away and chastised
The boring to sing and the dullards to talk run rife
There is no facial expression
Revolution an ugly frog
Love and flirtation an icy road
There are some who have become mimes that never move, ‘why bother’ they write in another notebook.
There’s a dance among the near enough destitute when after nobody is around and
they’ve twinkled their toes and the rains come down and the juice has been devoured
they sing these words, “leave us alone, oh please one more day leave us the fuck alone”
There’s happy magic men and women
and how to happy magic men and women also
Science and inclusivity has reached an all time tedious
Theres no call to act or be cute for even a short stay at a cabin upon the riverside
Jack frost is a day dream for children only
The divisive line is all too clear and often shouted from coffee reading teens
Over and over and over and over the cycle of life decimates psychic understanding.
It’s the loudest world to date, the air carries distraction upon unnatural whims; everything screams defiantly before it is dismissed and superseded by the next comment and the next attempt at newness down the factory line.
It’s touted by generations that thickness and retardation is now cool and the ability to hold words that strangle has retracted into its luminescent coil.
The eight sided die has been replaced by one and still you laugh and you laugh and you laugh at the cat that means nothing or the picture of a thing that reminds you of another thing, yet the rules, the schemata of life never changes…it only feels as though it should, this breaks me most of all.
Results in a failure to connect.
I don’t care what you are.
Some minds are just too far away from my own.
I can’t be what you’re about.
I can’t accept the linguistic nuances of a fool!
It’s not black and white, it’s diarrhoea and shite.
The point becomes moot and the game never starts.
It’s your shit-brick-filled brain,
your obnoxious gait, your own acceptable semi-racist stance any time you are accused,
“Is it because I am black?”
No, you’re a dickhead surrounded by those that are less so.
You are chastised because you’re a wanker and you do not belong.
It’s the fact you’re naturally clever than myself and your work ethic is a slap in my face.
It’s the voodoo that flushes from your tongue.
It’s the fourteen hours it takes to do your hair.
It’s your beverage of choice, your glamourous vocation.
It’s the little things that encompass all which keep us apart.
Stripped down to the essentials.
If I go to Japan, I live as they do.
If I come to your home I am at your mercy.
It’s not just a clash of cultures it’s an ever narrowing of view of what life is truly about.
If you have more than five true friends, you have too many.
If you connect to everything, you connect to nothing.
There is nothing that can bind us all together at a meaningful level.
It’s the chaotic fragment
A simple abyss
leaving us bereft of eternal-golden-hallelujah-halo-days…
What do I mean to you if I die this instant?
An inconvenience to be overcome and swept away?
An image to be forgotten?
If your reply is too weep
What would it mean to emote?
I am but but a vagabondage spirit with a home
If I were to die this instant what would you mean to me?
All too often my answer is nothing, entertainment perhaps?
This model of thought shaves the shit from my life before you rot what I might transcend into.
There are a few, one in particular to which my heart would bleed and bleed and bleed…
It would not stop
And time would corrupt
And the air would bile
And my smile would rot
And your memory would spin
And my soul would cease
And your love would know
there was only one!
To other lesser beings unworthy of anybodies time I ask
What do you appreciate?
What is your meaning to this Leonard Cohen song in particular?
What is your opinion on Dylan?
Who are you?
You ever gone insane, inside or out?
I always believed that the sublime was mine to just take.
And I ask you, please don’t stand in my way.
Youth can be stripped
Growing in age is an incomparable fear
Six steps beneath civilisation might be far off
But to die tomorrow or on anyone’s birthday,
results in today being the twilight of our lives.
I had to answer why Ed Sheeran and rap are a thing
I know why there is so much shit out there!
To follow Dylan
to be challenged by literary wizards
entranced by the filmic grace of a genius
is to admit they are better than you!
That you cannot inside of their moment even fathom what they did!
…You have to give yourself up to them…
You’ll buy pure-shit in the form of latest downloads though
because you genuinely believe you can do it also,
You’ll watch shit on the television because
it’s easily digestible and talkable and nothing of you is given away…
EVERYBODY LIKES TO SPREAD THAT SHIT AROUND!!!
But mostly it’s so you do not have to admit how useless the core of you is
how even you at your best, may ONLY amount to pathetic and the cost of a runner bean!
challenge is given up before you’ve even given yourself a chance
Remaining forever a perpetrator of schlock!
A walking, talking lifer of no values!
You are the reason why there’s so much excrement out there!
You are wakeful conscious shit!
Lost art of charity
It is not always cash that twist-turns the day around
can help the blues fall asunder.
A motivated discourse
A joke that doesn’t work
something other than the triviality of waking hours
is always appreciated.
The philosophy of nothing
Nothing is relatively easy
Nothing is the smile reflected in a stream
Nothing is the before, of every hope and dream
Nothing is not going out all the time
Nothing is stationary when all is lucid and spinning
Nothing is not competing when everybody’s losing and winning
Nothing is delivering the killer blow
Nothing is every change you’re ready to make
Nothing is the journey through sunshine you must forsake
Nothing is going missing for a while
Nothing is the opaque gamble through a thunderstorm
Nothing is your heart, ready to be reborn
Nothing is the continuos chance of renewal
Nothing is always open for negotiation
Nothing can be a town with only one chip shop open
Nothing is all we start off with
Nothing is what we shall get
Nothing can be shared with somebody you haven’t yet met
Nothing’s pendulum swings all ways
Nothing is every action you usually conceal
Nothing is your fate crushing up-against golden steal
Nothing is what you make of it,
nothing is your reaction to life’s raw deal.
Mistaken a kid for salvation
Your often wretched personality
leads little for the imagination
You’ve a face that fucks up gravity
surely more cannot help your situation
Yet here comes another
a forth, a fifth, a sixth!
you tell yourself you’re a great mother
leaving everybody else rather miffed
Now what can these kids go onto achieve?
We’ve all gotta work someplace
They’re always hiring at Maccy d’s
they’ll love your kids dower face
Could it all be sugar-coating, with the likes of you?
Listening to the radio, feeling nonchalant
What do your thoughts turn too?
What is it that you want?
Never a real conversation
Never a toe can you put wrong
At night you can’t escape the suffocation,
you know you don’t belong
To recall the school yard bully
or kids that devoured glue
It’s your self-inflicted sully
these children remind me of you
And when the cheque clears
or the direct debit fills you with glee
The only worry is pap smears
then how to spend all of your money
Yet your exultation is perennially short
no family, no true friends
All your lovers reach an abrupt abort
your heart is always on the mend
You’re one step away from a breakdown
Your children’s faces do not sound correct
It’s not another world’s cosmic takedown
what on this real earth did you expect?
Although most would be glad to snipe
and take away your net of safety
There is a way to overcome the gripe
and live far more swimmingly
To contemplate what your life could have been
is most often a most pointless endeavour
But to start before it’s all been seen
can often lead to a bliss-filled forever
To the promulgators of mental distress
I must profess to not knowing anything at all but everyone cannot be medically depressed of this I am sure.
Your life is shit, you’ve got no friends, no talent, no desire, death runs in everybody’s family,
you’re a crappy and boring human creation.
Nobody has ever listened to you and why would they?
You’re a fucking dullard, you stink, your hairs receding and your views are the most ego-centric anybody has ever come across
In many ways you’re not worthy of life, it is wasted on you and unashamedly you know it and espouse it all too frequently. ‘I wanna die… painfully’
It’s always everybody else’s fault, is it not, for the wonky game of choice you never asked for?
And yet you are jealous of others and do want what they have and perhaps wish them harm even though you have nothing to gain either way?
This frailty often becomes you and you’re lost for days.
The world feels black and white yet every time you act it turns to shit and you feel like glue.
Upon reflection you know what you did wrong but never learn from a single mistake.
Time and time again you cross the tracks blindfolded.
You know not what a metaphor is
and thought of mind skills feel like a quiz
So you ask the angel to get her tits out and cure your affliction,
is a sigh
Sadly there is no cognitive misdirection on your part
no medication that can eradicate the sensation
of a torn asunder, almost deceased, corpsical heart!
Yet the angels grace
left you with the taste of a journey when no z’s would arrive.
In-spite of a deceptive mind
out of the embers of time, will always emerge the chance
of a human being ready to start feeling alive…
I’ll be honest man
i’ve got nothing to say
Still gotta sit down and do my deed
a compulsion, much the same as fire fighting
pointlessly shooting to the moon
Motivated by unknown forces.
For the most part a conduit for the ethereal and kitchen sink
all the while accompanied by the notion,
never could I not do this.
Questions Questions Questions
How much of yourself is too much to giveaway?
Why don’t people walk around with their cocks and vaginas waggling?
After a week it all becomes blasé
Why can’t children know what a period is or where babies are really from?
They handle death better than we do and I’m fucking certain they hold the secret to immortality and joy in the general way.
Why is the Rogerian attitude not taught in schools?
How can drugged up fucktards get sober and not still be a fucktards?
What is worth time?
Knowledge, why can it be so powerful when expounded expertly and down to earthly?
If it’s sold too many why is it always shit?
Can you change or is it only wishful thinking and wilful distortion?
Free will, a concept or motivation to do nothing?
Destiny, an excuse for a bad life currently being lived?
How can man becoming woman and the reverse or the reverse of a reverse not be mental distress?
Day time television, WHY? WHY? WHY?
Can thickness be cured?
Where’s the heart of the matter, wheres the inspiration of disaster?
Where’s my answers, where’s the people asking the same questions as I?
Show readers that you can deliver value value value.
So a joke. Or just plain give them money. Buy your love from the internet. Make the day better than your own reality. If your home life is shoddy and your innards feel abused. Go online and lie about what you are until something is different or you fall asleep…ZZZZ
Vague tip number two
This means not copying other flaming flamingos and putting a tidy spin onnit. Come on who needs another pointless list compiled by money seeking mediocrity? Hehehehe. Moi?
Keep it short and not so sweet
Everybody is surely tired of drivel, or rap music insanity. Use bigger loquaciously delectable words you’d never use when walking to the shop and their staff and the dog walker you probable avoid. Who wants piss on their legs or growls from the peoples carrying the chains? We really must lie to what we are and may or may not become. How else can we get there folks?
Vague tip, number next one
Do you have a passion or a way of making money easily elsewhere?
Do something else then. Do that. Cash the steady cheque and work to live my feeble friends!
Anything. Writing is a pathetic compulsion, it’s damn near a brain disease. As i’ve said many times before, I’ve written seven novels, thousands of poesy and what has it got me besides head and grandiloquent delusions that the morrow shall be better and I’ll be able to afford the latest headlines snack at McDonalds
Also write really freakin quick
Mistakes are good, shows you really…care and that your talent is a natural occurring freak of nature. Thanks yo Rick mayall!
Pictures, pictures galore
Pictures pictures, pointless portraits of the weather, of cats debating with dogs about the social value of today pop musical society about the way certain cats are portrayed in dashed off Hollywood movies. They really do believe shit-zu’s are getting the short end of the stick. But what do I know eh?
When you have no real content to offer and your ideas are already dry after four posts inside the spacing of a month, resort to the lowest common denominator and do a meme. Just a line and a picture that means nothing to anyone anywhere. Come on, join the charge of LIKE brigade and be one of them.
They must make money, they have no talent, jealousy is a powerful motivator come on, just copy and past pictures from the inter-web and show you can come up with a kinda funny line time and time again.
I know you can do it!
If one post does good do it again and…
Say you get seven viewers where yesterday you have three then tweak and release the same content again again again again again again again. Same tags, same bollocks nobody really wants. Make sure the title’s roughly the same, wouldn’t want the readers to actually think now would we???
Vague tip number last one
You must publish all the day long
You really must bombard others with your content and comment until they like and feel brow beaten into loving your content or moreover, hopefully our artistic integrity blossoming before their worlds very eyelids. We really want to make them cry!
If everybody doesn’t love you straight away fuck em. Fuck em all to the river Styx, where I shall be ready to shepherd them to what they should have been doing all along.
Did somebody squeal and say minimum wage worker for life. Yes yes.
Let’s face it none of this gonna lead anywhere so create fiendish content. Fuck about with your fellow online neighbours. And if you make another day worthwhile for even a flashy second or three. You’ve done okay, above average!
My, D. David Croot’s, passion is the novels. I’ve failed for nineteen hundred years but soon, oh so soon I shall have my day.
Google knows everything anyhow so fuck around while you still have legs and genitalia that dances like nobody give’s a shit really.
If you are what you can be then change is your mistress.
If you get what you want and you can still delay gratification then life is your own.
If you can give yourself up and almost away then there’s nothing you can’t achieve.
If you can listen and only reply when necessary, you’re spreading the love.
If you can wake up every morning and bring joy to another you’re curing the worlds ills.
If you can show and never tell; your own style permeates everything, you are the ultimate teacher.
If you can put on your shoes, smell the grass, take an alternative route, eat a spontaneous dish, you are that rarefied thing… you are an individual.
Who isn’t. It’s a great place to relax, comment about tits and squirting and whatever other nonsenses entertains you on rainy says or sleep-in mornings.
So you’re a real sad fucker, a lonely vagabond, sitting wistfully a the window of no hope, rejection plays in your mind and the world has lost its wonder of glory days!
‘If ya aint working you might as well be jerkin’
Join the club of pathetic fuckers (the title of my next quickly bit of scrawled on paper of an article)
I did a quick google-google see what the sunken world appears to believe:
For many young people, pornography has become the default sex educator. Children and young people are encountering pornography in greater numbers, at younger ages, and with a wider variety of content, influencing young people’s sexual lives. Yada-yada-yada!
Researched evidence from around the world shows porn has harmful impacts on young people and adults alike. Some impacts are deeply troubling, particularly pornography’s contribution to sexual violence.
Beats having that dreaded talk with a drunken father or a retail mother who hates her job. But hey-ho they probably loved raising you! but now you’re old enough to fuck so what does this mean?
Hey, I mean a genuine and sincere hey, if they really cared they’d leave you too it anyway wouldn’t they…dot dot dot.hmmmmmmmm
What’s the doctor pepper of worse?
…an overly overbearing mother, enters! As she does, she says, “well you must consider your lovers needs also… here’s the clit son… you see this model I made just for you, modelled on my own, cost quite a bit, are you proud of your mama’s…ya get the disturbing picture.
The darker side of candour.
The effects of pornography: what the research says
Pornography can shift sexual interests, behaviours and relationships. It shapes sexual scripts, providing models of behaviour and guiding sexual expectations, with studies finding links between watching pornography and heterosexual and intercourse, unsafe sex and more
Apparently watching pornography can lower men’s relationship satisfaction. And for women, male partners’ pornography use can reduce intimacy, feed self objectification and body shame or involve coercions into sexual acts.
But do they? I can still love and be a bastard. You can make the argument that the Simpsons raised me, that a certain brand of plastic coated bottle distracted my mind, a teacher from year three looks at me the wrong way and now I can’t drink lemonade. Life is loooong, and many factors will contribute to your decay… nobody can live without avoiding them all.
And if you do
This is and always shall be a walking waking death!
But these next areas of impact concern some people most.
Pornography teaches sexist and sexually objectifying understandings of gender and sexuality. –Maybe.
For instance, in a randomised experimental study among young men in Denmark, exposure to (nonviolent) pornography led to less egalitarian attitudes and higher levels of hostile sexism. And in a longitudinal study among US adolescents, increased use of pornography predicted more sexist attitudes for girls two years later.
-sure perhaps, maybe. yet it’s here and aint gonna go anywhere is it. Is it really?
I’ve been around a while and most, a lot of, men, some butch (or not!) women are horrible human beings. But that’s all good, they’re not sailing with you, you’ve collided with them at the wrong time in their avalanche lives.
Although men get dirty-dirty-dirtier the older they get, partly because beauty is a beauty does. It Peaks somewhere between 25 and 40. We continue to get older and the eye cannot change its affection or even affectations.
As for women, ask em all. we are all individuals and lump sum generalisations are generally pointless, yet I make em anyway.
Why the funk not?
Life is a sailing boat of freedom and we can only make these bollocks presuppositions of what has wrecked our lives after the fact. For most, life has the potential for fun and joy and limelit-tungsten lighting for always better day-dreams where all is swell and the summer sun is red and steady in the sky.
Ethical porn is apparently a thing, an option my fellow accordion players!
Don’t know what that might look like. Fifteen minutes of:
“Are you okay with this, I errmmm don’t want to stick in your arse, if ummm..”
“But I’m the queen of anal!”
“I know that, and the know that but we still have to be sure…and you’ll let me know if I…break…rupture something…internally”
“Do you need a hand getting hard again? I’m fairly moist if you lube up we can start in the fanny then work up to the..”
“Didn’t know how to tell you this, I was so nervous… Oh ummm I’m gay, do you gotta a boyfriend to cup my balls again?”
“OH STICK IT IN ME YOU FUCKER I DON’T WANT-A WORK A SHITTY RETAIL JOB ALL MY LIFE!!!”
Epiphany miraculously occurs
“What happens when we hit forty?
“You know, we won’t be as attractive and can’t clinging to the glamour filled notions anymore.”
“Shouldn’t we deal with these grandiose issues when the time arrives in due course?”
“Well after taking a philosophy class online, epicurean stoicism or something…anyway I cannot help but thinking we should get to know each other first, have a coffee, meet the parents, maybe a few cousins…”
“Thought you were homosexual?”
“No no, nervous when talking to beautiful women such as yourself I result to cheap and meagre jokes in order to keep the conversation going.”
“Stick it in me now handsome!”
“Gladly…as long as you’re sure, you can tell me to pull out at any point.!”
“Yes yes I consent to you ejaculating where you feel will get us the most views, probably the tits, maybe my soon to be well oiled butt-cheeks.”
You ban it or you do not. Human life cannot be regulated. We hate, we’re stupid mongoles from a variety of stratosphere’s of semi-cultural life.
The world is dirty you cannot make sweet sa-weet cashola from products or services that do not interest the populace. Look at me, poor as poor can be! And Im Strindberg reincarnate…in many ways, perhaps, I sometimes guess.
A few random points to kinda be said
We have porn stars supposedly proud of what they do. Capitalism at its finest. They have followers haloed in gold ready to give. They are damn near celebrities. Whenever free moneys about this is always gonna be a luxurious honey dripped option.
It’s not such a bad life!
Most people take advantage of most people.
Humanity is shitty but capable of grandiose acts of charitable compassion…occasionally
Love is still around, openness and talent and artistic beauty will always be strived for and maybe even achieved, time to time, by a select and honour bound few.
There are plenty of wise ways to spend your leisurely time. You could even go outside and interact with another on some heartfelt level…but that’s effort. Requires us to be in some sort of shape for walking and tying up shoe laces, they’re usually all the way on the floorsies! Requites bending!
What have you learnt today. We’re all miserable in our own way so
‘If ya aint working you might as well be jerkin!’
Yes yes, D. David Croot may write a porno where the main character is turned on by dandelions he may disappear in a canal one day, plop! He may just keep on doing as he’s doing!
Just give me money
To win a million would not change an ideal
I just wouldn’t work, a rolling thunder of a deal!
it’s the day-dreamed hour that drags too long
It’s your being and dwellings, leaves me an emotional mong
I do however try not to be hate filled
it’s every other aspect of life which allows me to be thrilled
to travel and become of the european world
A need to write, create and leave no feeling ever unfurled
I always fail to comprehend how you live
and can only ask excuses and beg you to forgive
my life, my mind, my way of life as I ask you
for partial riches so that I can live fully too
It kills me to waste so much time
my life to work is a violent crime,
where all I can do is switch off entirely
engaging fictitious scenarios, retaining aspects of obscured sanity
It would not take much, ten grand a year would most probably do
If you felt the same you, it could happen to you
Because I don’t need a job for a sense of purpose
working leaves me with less when I need a surplus
It’s the look in your eyes that shows only distain
that I never should have brought it up, I cannot remain
But it strikes me to the core, I’m laughing within
when you realise that you work full time and you’re totally skint!
What makes a day a day.
I need eternal newness with every breath I live
To stumble through an identical day no way could I forgive
A day when the world precedes me
And the tongue of others deceive me
And can find solace only on the moon
But when the inspiration hits me
although it’s lost too quickly
it can never come to soon.
Getting a story curated by Medium is the first furtive goal of all writers on medium. It’s eyes on articles. It’s legions of adoring fans. It’s validation for your talents and innermost desires.
Getting a story curated means that it’s been cherry picked by Medium curators to be distributed to a vast audience of hand picked cherubs. You’re getting some sort’v noticed. hip hip hurray!
Maybe it’ll happen maybe it won’t! There’s the advice.
You can follow trends. Break you tender virtuous body backwards, crabby dance sideways and your mind open for the slaughter and still nothing. Sheeeeeeet that sentence was tiring.
If it’s a thing, it’ll happen!
Exposure, free advertising!
It’s daunting, vague and oh so enticing. So why would you not write about what you know, express what you feel in the only way you know how. Never follow a trend for money, it’ll rot your soul and lead you to burnout oh so quickly!
Use appropriate tags, swap them in and out, interact with the world or writers on this platform but stay magically true to yourself and others will see and feel it.
If you’re funny. Fuck around
If you have knowledge, reveal all
if you are successful share the valiant secrets
I am a loser who’s been writing for far too long. This is my passion. This is my curse. It’s not the only thing i do however. I am a multitude of varieties, again explored in far more depth in my novels.
but I never pretend to preach the answers!
“only follow those asking the same questions as you, battling the same demons as yourself because there are no easy answers! or digestible solutions! only a road ahead that’s best shared from time to time…” said by me, D. David Croot whilst staring outside the window whistling a lonesome tune.
if i ever get curated or make money, I’m up too twenty cents now (yay me), I’ll let you all know!
When you google ways for increasing productivity on any search engine, you’ve already failed! Your mind has gone awry and you’ve failed so supremely that you might as well never forgive yourself.
So now forgive yourself, we’re all losers. We all start on the ground in the gutter staring at the scenes bawdy stars dont-ya-know!
A good general rule is you should have the ideas already before you sit down. When popping to the shops, when milling about at your trivial day job/s, your mind should be restless with the beauty of bountiful ideas. What’s that? your kids are finally playing those video games or tic-toc video you pretend not to notice. This is your time, your peace time, your revelation time. If you are not swimming with the painterly ideas of the french impressionist something is amiss, is it not?
You cannot wait around for inspiration, it might be years, it might never occur. I am interested in the difference between sitting down and gruelling through the toil and simply writing when this thing called lightening hits.
I am of the controversial opinion you can easily enough create, curate your own inspiration.
It’s all in the setup. The setup can be glorious!
You wanna write, read the classics. I’d recommend starting now. There’s thousands. Make it your odyssey to get through at least three hundred. Preferably one or two from each author. Spread your beacons of knowledge around.
Vonnegut, Albert Moravia, Bukowski, Knut hamsun and Dostoevksy. Whatever takes your fancy. I really do judge a book by its cover!
You wanna create films, watch the best there is. I’d start with Yasujiro Ozu late autumn and then work forward. Kurosawa, Wong Kar Wai, Juraj Herz’s the cremator, the french new wave Chabrol, Truffaut and the nuisance of a godard (pierrot le fou!!!), the not so saintly Fassbinder, the ever interesting Herzog and von trier and so on…
If you wanna write trash, read trash, watch trash. Much like the crap you eat, what you put into your mind is what shall come out. Diluted, purifed a little lost in translation. But if you eat tic-toc and youtube you will be a walking sqwakin box of annoying!
My obsession is the novels, I also make poorly constructed movies in my spare spare time. Oh and I occasionally spread the poesy around. Again whatever takes your fancy really. Follow your divine passion, if you have none settle for a fascination. As when you learn so shall your audience! be sincere, genuine because even across cyber space it can be felt, tangible touched and occasionally tasted!
….or simply write down whatever comes to mind. You are your own stimulus, best enemy and gangly ally!
Follow no rules. Create your own stimulation. You really should not be reading articles like these. Friendly reminder, you’ve just failed!!! Drink coffee, let the the big band play inside your head and you should be off.
Remember it’s all in the setup and what you really want. DO you really wanna write or do you wanna be famous and lazy?
Be some sort’ve honest? We all fail and die in one way or another.
Do you really and openly and unabashedly wanna just create content and get given free stuff. Go out and be your own inspiration. EVERYBODY JUDGES EVERYBODY just DO IT!!!
Go ahead and clear your mind. Soothe thyself in delusional hope.
It’s pretty much what a haiku is. Think, express and move on.
Increase your vocabulary become delectable loquacious.
Give yourself permission to be bonkers and revel in the resulting chaos. someone out there might even love and adore it!
I’ll probably hate what you create but luckily I am not the only God!
The old man had always found beauty in everything
At sixteen he fell in love with the experience.
Survived long periods of marital bliss,
but it was only upon late life success
did he delve into an odyssey into which he long been obsessed.
…with his eyes full of knowledge, the beast unkept, unfettered and full of feeling,
waiting in gleeful abandon at what others found tritely unappealing…
He treated them well; in fact they sought him out,
house on a rocky hill, flowers inviting; always ready to teach
Through his memoirs they believed they knew what he was about
but after several days in his haven
it was only for the person within did they reach.
He greeted them all the same, robbers crooks and thieves,
‘Help yourself to whatever you want and maybe later I can give you what I need’
Yet the criminal racket do not read nor an old mans death did they want
from this kinda-Casanova’s perspective,
it was only himself did he casually flaunt.
There was a sick thrill riding the old man whilst asking him questions,
‘Was it this starlet or another? Am the lucky winner, am I your two thousandth?’
If truth were told, it was never too clear, coyness became bold and in the splendour he disappeared!
His reputation grew, the monotonous crowd became sickened and loud
how little they knew, the women became younger, luminous and proud!
It’s a piece of their puzzle, an issue worked through, he asked nothing of them
he let them did as they do.
Some stayed for days
others for more!
Several popped in for a quick blow job
his life, he reflected, was truly unflawed!
Although he taught whatever he could, poetry being a particular favourite
something short and up for debate and oftentimes, ‘made-up on the fly rather quick’
However his companions views, while entertaining, held little staying power,
nothing to compelling, littler ever quite remaining…
He wrote in the afternoon, what of? Nobody knows,
some alone time perhaps, a scribbled ephemeral line or satirical bomb.
Maybe lost in the wonder or a failing at the order of a personal gods behest
In desperate moments they could hear his plea,
‘Why couldn’t this way of life hit me when I was at my best’
Dodging all direct questions perfectly,
he kept them on a hook, believing they could reveal untold reveries
dropping lies and truth, contradicting his most boldest of recollections
then with a snarl or a sideways glance he’d dismiss their inspections.
Nobody complained of distress or sued for inappropriateness
but the media interests grew, ready to cut and paste and twist
surely they knew it was a life any old man could never resist!
They made a documentary on the curious old oddity
where the women were interviewed and calmly they’d say
‘There was wisdom in his brow, he made me feel truly unique’
‘I’d never been so free’
‘He cured every freak’
Undercover of fiction he could never be tricked
Revealing his cocks length at any news-ladies reporters expense
He’d chase them out the window with hilarious accusations of rape
He gave everybody what they wanted, from himself there was no escape.
As he got even older his poetic perspective enlightened
There was something he was missing, one integral wrong he felt he could righten
He’d had six distraught marriages and believed he’d found the cure
with women of all nationalities conceived forty plus years after he was born.
It was a woman all too complex who stormed his ideas of reciprocity
it couldn’t help but occur this untimely epiphany
A revelation to him, her chaste and perfect naked glory!
Everything repressed, all that he did not want to see
his poetic mind crushed to bended knee
If only, somehow, sixteen year old she
were truly ready
to start her life in bad poetry.
A word please
We know what it means
We know how to use it
Kids see it best of all
Freaks, they run amok!
Don’t tell me there aren’t any, for what’s a down syndrome, a no armed clarinet player, a man too fucking bulbous to leave the house?
Freaks! They are one and all!
Rename them clown angels or faggots, packets of crisps or stubblies.
We know what they are…Freaks!
And no public outcry shall change this very fact.
An ode to the dead who were destined…
I want you dead
I want you to live for me
Show me a neglected starry road that dines on raped wisdom
Reveal to all the fragile paradoxical line of laugher at the expense of this testicular trinket world
Disorganise and rearrange the insanity of every sense and most all cruxical ideals
You tortured miscreant,
wholly witty deviant
Flames engulf your tomb
but you never did care
Always wailing through melody,
railing at phantoms around
Sit in shit and live like a pig!
I need a line from a cancerous life
Time passes and your wretched splendour
becomes fairytale, poorly emulated
only ever debated then slept on memory foam
You dreamers within dreams on top of the beauty of a slit n’ bloodied neck
Wrapping your discoloured lies around maidens tap-dancing through graveyards
Gut rot poison imbibed for the searching reason it had no affect
The self-aware self, the authenticity of genius is always interesting
always damn near perfect!
Let us destroy and improve as artists far beyond our worth!
Now that we’ve begun this challenge: to acquire 100000000 or more followers in less than one day. Cause we want money and our stars to shine. For we are all gods of disillusioned children.
let’s help one another by actually reading the content of our creations. The 10000000000 followers I agree is a sensational start but if no-one reads we are all wiping our own butt-hairs. Which ain’t a too bad place to start, even if i always wanted a chinese assitant called Wong to wipe my arsehairs clean with baby wipes….
Because shitting is a heavenly thing, the toilet is my thrones. but sluicing around afterwards is degrading.
I’d like to seek your assistance. I’d like to quit my job. I’d love to be able to play duelling banjos on guitar but alas life has not worked out for me and i am a talentless writer of sweet nothings.
Leave a comment on this page and a link in the comments of something you are particularly proud of for myself and others to read. It’s as simple as that. interaction with the rolling world is key to 100000000000 billion followers…
Bergman judges us all. None more harshly than we judge ourselves.
Nothing can take that away from me
I feel like a god
It is not the control
not the commercial allurances, for I have no spare cash!
It is the being away from it all, my room in a loft, Leonard growling on repeat, I own the vinyl I adore the cd’s!
I need to be different to you.
School did not offer much but an open window with which to escape in and out of:
I climbed a tree
I stroked a dog,
I became whatever video game character I was playing at the time, I filled the blanks in my youthful consciousness with embellished tales and biblical sentiment that made most fun.
2 plus 2
is such a
insanities a great idea!
I did not know I wanted to write until much too late
I am not near death,
just ponder it all too frequently
Its abstractness, its ubiquity within our culture is all too unsure.
I do know
your vision of death is not my own.
In my own way I am god
I am coached and nudged by a certain guiding line from within
where feeling conquers the mind and these lackadaisical lines are my only reward.
The sleight of hand of sleep
I, on jogs or walks or naps or lulls in the working day ruminate on how shitty a human being I am. What is my most vile weakness, a static truism I would never reveal, a chrysalis of knowledge I have hidden even from myself.
Contemplate ruinate slide on through
appreciate the tiny peculiarities that arise.
Pressure be gone!
My favourite word is retarded
You are retarded
The government is retarded
I am retarded
My favourite word is retarded
If it becomes unlawful or uncouth to say
I’D only shout my favourite word louder, RETARDED
JAY-Z and Kanye are retarded
The perpetrators and listeners of rap are retarded
Work is retarded
Talk and chatty-chit-chat shows, 9-5 plus more-ers, anybody who aligned themselves with one group solely are wholly retarded.
Feeeeeeeeels so grand to repeat: retarded
retarded retarded retarded
Please don’t take my word away from me
It’ so glee-filled to utter
Hear that rhythmic joy?
My woman undressing
Dylan and Cohen singing a duet for my ear alone retarded?
Davina Mc-coll is retarded, the news is retarded, the way we communicate is retarded.
Space travel, nuclear destruction is exciting but still most retarded.
Social media rots the soul and television might well be a hurricane of retardation.
That sentence is retarded !
Don’t you see, the whole universe is retarded!
Aliens know it, the enlightened too!
But we can’t tell you because your retarded mind shall take retarded offence!
And what happens next is a punch to the eyeball or a viral campaign against whatever it is I happen to represent to yourself.
But until then,
one sweet refrain from the familial golden suns heart.
The whispering melody transcended to the soul from a memory and dream long vacated
A singular, triumphantastical word to sum up the perspective of the lamented people’s pursuits
It’s hard to say I miss you in all of every ways
when parted for only seconds, I become a dull-achey craze
I miss what you are and not just represent
you validate myself, never the need to repent
It’s not only your natural beauty
although your naked body does not know what it does too me
and when you speak and gleefully reveal to me I’m full of shit
i can only laugh, pull your hair, it’s you I can’t resist
When you go away as I know you must
i have to forget about the return, pretend it’s no fuss
I write, I attempt to capture the nuance in the cliched lame
but I know stylistic prosody can’t express anything more than, ‘we are one and the same’
I miss you now as I contemplate, reveal and jot it all down
I miss you in the crapper, a feeling I’ll laughingly never get around
I’ll miss you for ALWAYS, EVER, MORE and BEFORE
It’s the feeling of every eternity I disgustingly believe in all the more
Through past lives it never mattered, you could have lived on a shooting star
i’d follow the feeling, no mountain, no nothing would ever be too far
You could even have been a blot of bacteria on the moon
i’d hold my breath and blow myself up, making my heart a balloon
I don’t know what I have done to deserve your soul, your body, your earthy presence
please find a job the hours of my writing, heaven knows I can’t take the suspense!
And before, when I believed love was make believe or even a circular curse
you dumbfounded my rational beliefs and made only the irrational side worse
I know we’ll live more lives than a gaggle of cats can count
it’s the religion of us I care for, nothing else can equal the amount
You’re the gateway to an insolvent moment of near permanent transcendence
you’re the gift that allows my mind to wonder and speak aloud in the truest of confidence
I’ll never shake the feeling that your grandiose heart is too good for me
but I’m here for as long as you want, just watch, I’ll hope, you’ll only see!
I may very well be a Deviant novelist, candlelit poet stuck in archaic notions of a renaissance man who fails to give a shit…
…i really do not enjoy the ardour of work. Believe me i’ve slogged through my fair share of terrible jobs. I’ve been alive nearly two thousand years less we forget!
My hearts certanly lingers where the Deviants Dwell!
After honing the craft, whoring myself out to life, for nineteen-centuries I believed it to be about time to share a little…
I’ve ploughed through what little knowledge I’ve ferrtetted away these past and wayward years…been lucky and obesessive enough to have uploaded five novels to amazon (how do people find these things?) I have two more on the back burner. Perhaps my greatest work ever, think Kobo Abe on slow burning cocaine as for the other… believe in the power of a young Thomas pynchon who actually makes sense…once again on coke (the street variety)
…with the spirit of August Strindberg, the heart of Knut Hamsun, the uncouth fuel of Fassbinder, the deranged crazies of a Baudelaire before the disease (humanity/ lack of) bit off too much! I have written far too frequently and believe i may in fact be unsuitable for every day longings!
… yet i am going to do that rarefied thing, yes yes i can make you laugh, sometimes you may even be left in thought long after my novels or rhapsodic prosody have been devoured. Maybe a little poesy is your thing. I ask you how do you make money writing???
I’ve never been alive. always been a loser with a cardboard home to filter the world through! yours sincerly D. David Croot (forget about the previous three hundred novels that shall never see the golden rays of lingering winter days. they were shite!)
A most hidden agenda
(Paradox of the poet)
I am aware of every evil thought I have ever had.
It is not the death of war or evil, serial killers and well hidden pedophiles.
This is all a given, we all get that way. It is mankind, nature and the banking of moral corruption.
Too darn clear.
It is essence of the obnoxious in a queue.
The whinging moribund baby.
A cliched sentiment the smell of putrid spew.
They can all die in a bus-load of toxic viruses, quickly spreading to their negligent families too.
It is the little things, I believe, could be changed!
No one’s brought me cereal in the morning.
Conversation is of the inadequate and non-revealing type.
The bacon was too bacon-y and I have no one to complain at because I am well aware of how fucking pointless I sound.
Slits n’ cracks in the day, that make my life go that milli-fraction smoother.
I don’t deny it, the world would be better off without you in it, myself included.
All trying to make our way, have an impact in the tiniest of avenues. Often at the expense of a chance at the truth.
In any city street you’d rather bump through me than, give a little or use words.
It is the guilty thought of, I purchased something for you and for a split second I had entertained the notion that there would be a return.
It is, if I smile and manipulate you right now, I’ll never have to undertake what you were going to ask.
It is Grandad give up and leave me your gold!
It’s an ongoing symphony.
Little pressure points that make the heart meander.
But I doubt it’s any surprise were you too:
Stop listening to your shoddy podcasts
Stop grooming your wanton street walking pets
Stop day-dreaming of things you’ll never do
Stop dressing like everyone else
Stop living by the attitude of platitude
Stop being the shitty you!
And if your perception becomes wisdom filled, your movement pure style and talent flaunts within every genius tinged sensational action… I know I’d be suicidal!
Nothing to live for
little to rally against!
So I thank you from my tear-bleached heart
it is your guiltless non-awareness
your human insignificance
that motivates me most of all.
Years full of a burning need to exist
everything is new
every day a trial by desire
A burning banjo in a backstreet ally
A flamin moon across a strip of moistness
only remind you of your own mortality.
It is the thrill of a chanced encounter
that can avail your gypsy consciousness further and higher…
Yet the clock always pervades
stilted minutes tumble into decades
your body shall wilt and your eyes will falter
as long as there is a burning need to exist
no day can ever be missed, not one second would you alter.
I just Stare at Arses
Customers, women, children, post men and ladies with no dress sense,
down-syndromes, faded beauty and the youth of an idealised day…
To me, the same
…I just stare at arses
It can be sexy but often it isn’t
It is the snot-rot insides turned outside for the eyes to see
‘Hello, I’ll take your money now, please take your card’
I point them around the course
let them have at it
All arses are different and tell a varieties of mythos
The themes interlink and lock, unique in the subtle ways life attacks them.
Their arses are the place where mental illness comes from:
It is a shoe lace snapping, it is the truth revealed from a lover long turned wife that she must leave, it is a crushed autumnal leaf that stabs at the shoe, it is the child’s response to everything, “Daddy why why why…” it is all that is easily said but so hard to react to when it arrives from the core.
And it shall!
On break, in home bargains, I witness the vivacity of teenage years evaporate.
Thin becomes tub, face become round, make-up is applied to cover rather than accentuate desirable features.
In there I do little more than smile, dither then leave. It’s become a horrorshow to me now.
Oftentimes I pretend to be mute, controlling mankind with my eyes
The management do not notice
affects my day little
…I just stare at arses
I see arses wiggle through the green mesh gate
My manager’s arse wiggles as I am forced to perform the mundane in yet another way.
What is with you? Why the pretence? We both don’t wanna be here.
Existence is effort.
Can’t say I do much at home but stare at arses on the television
Alison Brie has a great arse
Most others do not but I listen and take note and learn what I can
Outside of my bedroom window once more I find myself gazing, always
Staring at arses
They walk their dogs and chat shit and reveal everything but what really ails them.
The vacuity of most people my age apes at me, it is why I do not interact instead I just
Stare at arses
I don’t get what they get from the simples of interactions it is the world or nothing.
I just stare at arses
I can’t stomach friends
I just stare at arses
No whims or hopes or acceptable discourse
I just stare at arses
I never want to be you
You should never want to be myself
To emulate is okay for a while,
to doth the cloak of another, look cool in a cow boy hat
or new facial hair can be ever so much fun!
But when it’s too long, stagnation occurs and
you’ll only be left with a heart where a saddened mind ponders potential long depleted.
My death shall be a funeral tango of delight
where the entrants shall revel in fading daylight
Eat be merry and fuck on the floor
celebrate a life-lived and nothing more
But if, in life, I offered you only distain
then please, my petty do refrain
from showing up and revealing a face
that floods of zirconium tears could ever replace
the virtuous truth that I did not like you at all
or give credence any time you mouth did crawl
For now, alive, you can dive into an electrocuted shower
and even if your death were in my power
no way would I turn up at your rotted dance to greet
your kin, your slipshod sentiments and revel in the most despicable of deceit
of you, gripped in the heinous anguished moment of emotion faked
your rotted core, a soul on the take
Oh limp sagging wilted bubonic world,
i’d rather dine in volcanic ash than be witness to your fate
So, if only four or five or less do show up
from up high, I shall saviour every spirited sup
take only joy in cries of praise from the ones I have loved
because there and none too many I shall long to see whence above
What happens when your mother dies, you cannot relate to your kids and your wife is just the first lady to wave her pearly puppy dog eyes at you? You do as Dennis does! Romance and life begins when you disregard all that has gone on before.
Written with the wit of Kurt Vonnegut, the heart of Knut Hamsun and Carson McCullers combined. Truly a modern incarnation of that blunted reality seeker Charles Bukowski. This is the romantic slice of life you all seek! Follow the feeling!
Can you start again in the middle of middle age? “Course you fucking can” says Dennis as he leaves his wife, his job and his kids behind for a world anew.
D. David Croot has been writing on and off (pretty much continually) for nineteen hundred years. He is no preternatural creature, no real special abilities or heightened desires to speak of, but he’s put in his four-trillion hours and it’s all for you my sweaty precious and sublimely beautiful creatures.