The Notebook Returns

Once upon a time, I used to write in a notebook everyday. It's been so long I thought I'd lost it, so instead I wrote, for the first time in months, on a folded piece of loose leaf.

Stream of Consciousness:

you're doing him a poetic injustice.

CRAICOW. is craic a lacking. but not lacking craic. or vodka. or Godka.

imagine the pipe cleansing power of 95 proof spirit de-ice your heart in a heartbeat. the drano of alcohol.

Sail away in a sailboat so put your sole up for sale for scale. pallour valour in the parlour with a spar candy bar. Handy at sports to court the shorty at McDaids on a Sunday. Sunday. Sunday. Brunch of bacon and toasties toasty warm by the fire aspire for higher learners and yearners for the spread of the sun over green. Fields and fields and fields of green and of grey we go looking for lost things in the post post war and post modern artistiques listening to terrible music with tearable hearts. we start. Tear us apart, love. Above there is no sign. There is no Mine. or Thine. or His. It's ours in hours it seems to take driven to be ridden of sadness and doubt shout shout shout! Shout it out loud! Let it go sailing flailing and ultimately failing to see the light of days dismays me and betrayed. I strayed from the past present and future lost my bearing in Berring sea to a polar bear with no molars.