augury doggerel

Saturday, February 23, 2002


My thoughts are always a stack of cheap metaphors written on the backs of beer mats and stuck together with sticky cherry vodka, similes heaped like a house of playing cards with naked ladies, the sort you buy at a truck stop and never use. These things give me private pleasure. They're old bar tricks I do to amuse myself. But l must do them alone, and lately I cannot be solitary.

Have I grown a friendly face? Do I look like a psychiatrist? Is it the beard? I cannot sit in public without ghosts appearing from the cloakroom clutching wounds, complaining that their lives are not my own, while I drink beer poured from the same damned taps.


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